


forever is composed of nows

by eclipsed (lucitae)



Series: the art of being happy [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A dash of internalized homophobia, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Slice of Life, incoherent 402 crying, light novel 12 spoilers, slid in between the cracks of canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitae/pseuds/eclipsed
Summary: The radio is turned to the lowest audible level, relaying a traffic report. The light overhead is red. The fields to his left are speckled: the brown of mud breaking up the once pristine white.Shinsuke’s attention momentarily drifts to the vacant passenger seat beside him and the bento box that takes up space. The contents are simple: inari sushi paired with grandma's favorite dashimaki tamago.Miya Osamu didn’t say much as he handed the bento over to Shinsuke. But his fingers brushed against Shinsuke’s by accident and lingered for a fraction of a second too long.Am I allowed to fall in love with you, Kita-san?The traffic lights transition green. A press of a pedal leaves the city behind. The words resound, drowning out the radio.Kita Shinsuke spends the four seasons with Miya Osamu.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Osamu
Series: the art of being happy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839049
Comments: 37
Kudos: 215





	forever is composed of nows

**Author's Note:**

> writing a sequel is daunting. movie sequels tend to fall flat when compared to the original. my writing has undergone changes since april and my grasp of characters hasn't improved since then.
> 
> so if you are here, giving this fic a chance, i would like to take the time to thank you. i hope, in one way or another, it brings you closure. [❤](https://twitter.com/srtkp_q/status/1285771170223017986) [❤](https://twitter.com/srtkp_q/status/1286348146084384770) [❤](https://twitter.com/mutsuraboshi11/status/1285412060981936128) [❤](https://twitter.com/caaarot_/status/1285602408752656385)
> 
> note: 402 viz translations were accurate. in my excitement i confused obachan with obaachan. there is a big difference. that said, kita yumie supremacy still exists.  
> i didn't italicize words because there is a lot. i'm sorry.
> 
> an [art commission](https://twitter.com/Lynniepanda/status/1298241251213316096) to accompany this fic! and a [second one](https://twitter.com/shokurensei/status/1302955027959439360)! grow your own ship like rice.
> 
> huiya drew a [piece](https://twitter.com/cursedmascot/status/1336295120254070784?s=21) inspired by one of the scenes!

The wooden chopsticks are nestled upon porcelain holders of cracked blue glaze. A bowl of rice to the left hand side — a perfectly circular mound, packed tight and still steaming. The scent of grilled salmon and miso entwine, inciting a curl of hunger after a long day. Shinsuke presses his hands together and bows his head. Not for the gods but for those who reel in fish, clean, and transport it. For those who plant and reap crops, package, and store it at the groceries. For his grandmother who prepared this meal. For all the effort put into this meal and all the hands it has passed through. A meal does not begin until the humble reception of _itadakimasu_ is uttered.

But just because it is routine, doesn’t mean it is immutable. Today is different from yesterday and the day before that.

Grandmother sits across from him, legs neatly tucked beneath her. If it wasn’t for degenerative changes related to age, she would be sitting as straight as Shinsuke. The shibazuke is suspended between pair of chopsticks as she reaches over to place it on top of Shinsuke’s rice.

Shinsuke looks up.

“Is there something on your mind, Shin?”

The chopsticks return to her side as she takes a few slices of the red shiso brined pickled cucumber for herself. Shinsuke can almost hear her humming under her breath like she does most days. The phantom of an old love song grandfather used to favor lingers in his ear.

Shinsuke sets his chopsticks down, hands falling into his lap.

“Do you remember that kouhai of mine I mentioned? The one that runs an onigiri shop?”

Grandmother nods as lips close around a bite of rice. “The one you supply.”

“Yes,” Shinsuke says. “He asked if he could visit for a week or two.”

A smile cracks over her face. “You don’t have to ask for permission.” The chopstick separates a chunk of salmon from the rest. “You already have the answer in mind.”

Before Shinsuke can counter with a _but..._ she speaks up again.

“Mume-chan has been telling me for years that the lavenders are in bloom around this time.” The smile she displays is the one Shinsuke is familiar with. It comes from the depths of her heart despite eyes obscured by crescents. “Maybe it’s time I go see them myself.”

“ _Obaachan_...” it comes out a little soft. This wasn’t his intention. “I didn’t want to inconvenience you by having someone else around.”

Her hands are deft as she picks apart another piece of salmon. It goes on Shinsuke’s bowl again, as if urging him to pick up his chopsticks and continue his meal. A signal that the proper conversation has come to an end.

“I would never be inconvenienced by a friend of yours,” his grandmother merely says. “Introduce him to me next time.”

Shinsuke picks up his pair of chopsticks and sweeps a bit of rice along with the bite of salmon into his mouth. It’s warm, much like the expression grandmother wears on her face. Shinsuke finds his lips curling upwards as he chews.

The radio is turned to the lowest audible level, relaying a traffic report. The light overhead is red. The fields to his left are speckled: the brown of mud breaking up the once pristine white.

Shinsuke’s attention momentarily drifts to the vacant passenger seat beside him and the bento box that takes up space. The contents are simple: inari sushi paired with grandma's favorite dashimaki tamago.

Miya Osamu didn’t say much as he handed the bento over to Shinsuke. But his fingers brushed against Shinsuke’s by accident and lingered for a fraction of a second too long.

_Am I allowed to fall in love with you, Kita-san?_

The traffic lights transition green. A press of a pedal leaves the city behind. The words resound, drowning out the radio.

“ _Okaeri_ ,” his grandmother greets. It’s followed by a: “did something happen?”

Shinsuke hands over the bento box in lieu of an answer. “Sorry, they are a bit cold.”

Grandmother shakes her head, excitement palpable as she says: “I was just thinking of making dashimaki tamago the other day. Now, we can have it for dinner.”

“I’ll eat it well. Please thank Osamu-kun for me,” she says as she shuffles to the kitchen.

Shinsuke catches his expression in the mirror after relaying his grandmother’s message. There’s a smile there. Unsurprising. Despite the chilly night, his torso is warm with the weight of shiso stained onigiri.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Osamu announces upon entry. There’s a bag in his hand. One of those fancy ones boutiques use that fold properly, the ones where the name is spelled out in English and printed on the side. “For you,” Osamu gifts it with two hands and a half bow. The smile that was already wide on his grandmother’s face dips into one of fondness as she receives the bag.

“You didn’t have to,” she says.

Osamu answers with a smile before he slips off his shoes. He turns around and straightens them after placing them to the side.

Shinsuke watches as his grandmother takes a peek at the contents of the bag. Joy makes the the lines on her face curl deeper. It would be infectious if not for her “ah, Shin! It’s the cake!”

His attention snaps back to Osamu. So that’s why the name felt familiar. It was a brief report commenting on the long lines of a newly opened cake shop in the heart of Osaka. Grandmother’s fingers halted for a brief moment, the sweater she was knitting forgotten as she voiced “I wonder what it tastes like.” Shinsuke had made a mental note of it and then promptly forgotten. And maybe, just maybe, if Shinsuke dug through his chat history, he would find that one line where he asked if Osamu had tried it and whether or not it was worth the wait.

Even if the initial popularity had died down, “don’t you have to wait for hours?” slips out despite Shinsuke’s intention to thank him.

Osamu merely smiles.

“It’s nothing.”

Between running a business and looking after his sibling, a few hours out of the day isn’t nothing.

“Besides,” he says, tinge of pink creeping to his cheeks, an attempt to hide it with a hand rubbing against the nape of his neck, “it’s too big for me to finish alone.”

“Thank you,” his grandmother beams before heading to the kitchen, the bag carried in her arms like something precious.

Shinsuke echoes it later, after Osamu has crossed the genkan, listening to the clink of plates as his grandmother partitions the cake for three.

“How do you like your okoge?”

The kitchen is full. Two presences side by side. Height has nothing to do with it but Osamu lowers himself a little: at the knee, at the waist. An ear inclined in the direction of Shinsuke’s grandmother, brows furrowed in rapt attention. He licks his lower lip and it reminds Shinsuke of the way the twins used to look right before they break out something new in the middle of a match.

“The more the better,” Osamu replies.

Grandmother smiles. “Shin-chan does too.” Then lowers her voice and cups a hand in front of her mouth as if to whisper a secret into Osamu’s ears. “Not that he’ll ever admit it.”

It’s still loud enough for Shinsuke to overhear. He turns away from the urge to make his presence aware and continues to polish the engawa. It’s not his fault that the crispy texture of rice at the bottom of the pot brings him comfort.

Their gazes return to the stone pot. Steam pours out of the tiny hole in the lid. Grandmother narrates the process of cooking rice with a stone pot and Osamu jots down notes. A small pad seemingly conjured from thin air. A sleek black pen that scribbles instructions as questions spill from his lips.

“And just before you turn the stove off, turn the heat to high for ten seconds to get it crispy.”

The scent of freshly cooked rice wafts through the house when Osamu lifts the lid. Grandmother stops him before he breaks up the rice. She scoops a bit of rice onto a spoon and raises it for Osamu to taste. Under the sole overhead lamp in the kitchen, grandmother’s hair turns silver and Osamu casts long shadows. Both faces are upturned in glee. Osamu with the excitement of “this is the best rice I’ve tasted!” and grandmother with a tint of pride.

It is here that Shinsuke decides to join them, wedging himself between his grandmother and Osamu. His grandmother scoops another mouthful of rice, Shinsuke leans forward to wrap his lips around the utensil. A trick of light makes Osamu’s ears seem a little red. The rice in his mouth is a little too warm for his liking, but the texture verges on perfection. He’s certain that, he too, wears that expression of pure joy.

“It makes for a very interesting onigiri,” grandmother says.

“Oh?” Osamu sounds and Shinsuke switches his placement with Osamu. He observes from the side.

Grandmother’s wrinkled hands deftly shaping rice into balls. Sprinkling nothing but salt. Osamu follows. Hands probably desensitized to the heat from the day in and day out of repetitive motions. Shinsuke watches as Osamu rolls his sleeves, allowing them to settle just a little above his elbows. In seconds a triangle appears in the palm of his hand.

“Can you grab the beni shoga, Shin?”

Shinsuke shivers a little at the sharp contrast of the air of the cool fridge and the warmth he was basking in just moments ago. The pickled ginger sits in a clear glass container. Shinsuke retrieves it, pops open the lid, grabs a pair of chopsticks, and places it on the counter. Grandmother nods her head in thanks as she takes a thick slice of beni shoga and places it on top of Osamu’s onigiri. The vibrant red stands out against the white rice speckled with dots of burnt rice.

Osamu takes a bite.

Shinsuke chuckles at the expression on his face: raised eyebrows in both shock and delight. Corners of his lips pulled upwards, a soft _mmm_ unable to be swallowed.

Osamu takes another bite and another until it disappears from his hands.

“Watching you eat makes me hungry,” his grandmother comments. She too takes a slice of beni shoga, places it on top of her ball of rice, and takes a bite.

The words that sandwich a meal are never uttered. It doesn’t matter. The concentrated smiles of pure bliss is more than enough to convey thanks.

Obaachan looks up. The sun falls across her face. The wind stirs the surface of her cup of tea. The leaves of the nearby tree is lined with small buds.

“Ah,” she exhales. If it was a bit colder her breath would have visibly dissolved in air. “It’s hanami season again.”

“Do you want to go watch flowers with me?”

Shinsuke switches his phone from one hand to the other.

“I’ll reserve a spot and take care of the food,” Osamu continues, “so you and your grandmother can take your time.”

“Hold on,” Shinsuke says. Even if Osamu can’t see the smile on his face, he surely can hear the footsteps across tatami that rush from one place to another.

Shinsuke cups the receiver area of the phone. “Obaachan, hanami with Osamu?” It isn’t until the question slips from his lips does he realizes the childish quality to his voice.

Grandmother brightens. “I would love to!”

A chuckle from the other side as Shinsuke relays his grandmother’s words. “That’s good to hear. I’ll send you the details later.”

Shinsuke sets the phone on the table as he listens to his grandmother hum and old tune. He looks up at the tree outside and hopes the day it blooms will come a little sooner.

The grass is carpeted by sakura. With every breeze strong enough to stir branches, pink petals cascade down. It looks like a rain made of flowers. The once drab streets now drenched in pastel hues. Humans congregate under trees — in pairs, in groups — in awe at nature’s showcase. A child runs and kicks up a storm behind him, giggling while trying to capture a petal before it reaches the ground.

Shinsuke has one hand on his grandmother’s back. The other poised so that she can grip it. Shinsuke doesn’t look up until she releases him to wave at someone.

Osamu stands in a sea of petals and people, upon a sky blue cloth. Around him is black lacquered boxes stacked on top of each other. He waves back enthusiastically. Without the protection of his cap, the wind makes a mess of his hair. Without the shade of his cap, the smile seems even more radiant under the sun.

Shinsuke raises his own hand to return the greeting before returning to making sure nothing is in his grandmother’s way.

True to his word, Osamu prepares boxes and boxes of food. Even managed to get Kikujudo Yoshinobu's Hanami Dango for this event. Grandmother chatters away in excitement, savoring the dango before even touching the rest of Osamu’s food. Shinsuke flashes him an apologetic grin but Osamu is too busy grabbing the thermos filled with tea, pouring a cup and setting it in front of his grandmother.

“Thank you,” she says, receiving it with both hands before taking a sip. Her head tilts back as she surveys the blanket of pink above. “Tea and dango is what hanami is all about.”

Osamu nods and follows her lead, taking the stick skewering the dango to savor it. Shinsuke follows suit.

The sakura petals find their way into the bento boxes, adding color to the contents and adorning their tea. Grandmother lets out a little giggle when it lands perfectly on top of the raindrop sakura cake Osamu had made. ( Grandmother had been more in awe over the cake that looked like a drop of water containing sakura blossoms than the dangos. Shinsuke did not miss the way Osamu glowed. ) Even her hair gets a few stray petals mixed in. Shinsuke is about to reach over and brush it out when

“Kita-san,” Osamu says. Both of them turn to face Osamu.

Shinsuke lets out a laugh at how synchronized they were.

“It gets confusing if you keep addressing us like that,” Shinsuke says, “just call me Shinsuke.”

Grandmother chuckles and joins in as well. “Then call me Obaachan and I’ll take this chance to call you Osamu-chan.”

Shinsuke watches in amusement as Osamu’s face colors. “Go on,” he encourages, lips twisted with mirth, “practice.”

Osamu’s eyes flit between the two of them. Mouth opening, hesitant, before uttering: “Shinsuke.”

The thing about names, grandmother once told him, is that they are sacred. A gift that you can accept or reject or change at a later date. A thing you build yourself around. A word others connect all their associations to.

The wind carries it away.

The way it sounds in the cave of Osamu’s mouth feels _right_. Shinsuke smiles and hides it with a bite of onigiri. The okoge scattered throughout adding variety to the soft rice. It’s a little salty but the sweetness lingering from the cake alters his perception.

Shinsuke watches as grandmother presses for an _Obaachan_ and the way the tips of Osamu’s ears remain bright red.

This time when Osamu visits, he brings Shochikudo’s famous mikan mochi and Shinsuke begins to suspect that Obaachan’s LINE messages may no longer be solely taken up by Mume-san. Shinsuke winds her arms around grandmother protectively and only releases her when she pats his arm gently.

“Sometimes I think you like Osamu more than me,” Shinsuke jokes after grandmother tells him to not be a discourteous host.

“Oh, have I been found out?” she says while wearing the knitted sweater with _Kita Shinsuke_ on it.

Shinsuke can tell Osamu is trying to hide his laugh behind a fist, a poor effort at faking a cough, and decides to forgive both of them. He brings out the white peach tea and brews enough for three.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Shinsuke asks, leaning against the frame of the door as he yawns with a hand that barely covers his mouth. He watches the way Osamu’s entire body seizes in surprise. Osamu is crouched, mere centimeters from the metal coils of the chicken coop. Feed is scattered on the ground within. He must have remembered where grandmother had stored it last visit.

“It’s nothing,” Osamu replies, turning back to watch the hens peck at the pellets that have strayed from the holder. Osamu’s arms are crossed. It looks as if he’s receding into himself. If he were wearing a maroon track suit jacket, Shinsuke could almost pretend they were back in high school, just a little before morning practice begins.

“Do I snore?” Shinsuke teases, face impassive as he does.

“No,” Osamu says quickly, hands waving in front of his face. “I just had a lot on my mind.”

And then a little more urgently and in a serious tone “you don’t snore” in a way that makes Shinsuke turn his head to the side and laugh into his fist. Shinsuke decides to leave it at that.

The sun won’t rise for another half an hour. The dark blue sky overhead will slowly get tinged with magenta before turning orange. The rooster will remind inhabitants of time and the birds will greet the day with song.

Shinsuke takes the jacket draped over his shoulders and places it around Osamu’s. “Mornings are cold.” He looks up and back at the lines strung between utility poles before turning back to Osamu with a wry smile. “The ratings for my farm stay would plummet if you got sick.”

Instead of the laughter he expects, Osamu draws the sides of jacket closer until he’s enveloped. “Thank you Ki—” he must have notices the way Shinsuke’s eyes narrowed: “Shinsuke.”

Shinsuke nods. “I’ll call you when breakfast is ready,” he says before walking back into his home.

I’m thinking of dropping by tomorrow. Rice supplies must be low by now.

As if they lived within thirty minutes of each other to _drop by_. But it has become routine by now, just like the once every two months or so visitations by Osamu.

His phone vibrates with a reply. Shinsuke looks at the enthusiasm in the animated sticker and smiles.

Onigiri Miya is busy during this time of day. Each seat is occupied. The once full shelves of onigiri have been mostly depleted due to rush hour. The door rattles open and shut, the noren flaps not from the wind but because of how often it is brushed to the side by a hand. The _welcome_ s ring consistently.

Today is even busier than normal, Shinsuke notes as he carries bags of rice to the back. He raises his head and notices one of his bags of rice sitting proudly on the counter. The name he had taken his time to select faces outside as if a subtle advertisement for anyone detailed enough to catch. Or for the moments someone ask Osamu where the rice is from and he shows it off. The thought makes Shinsuke’s chest warm.

“Why is it so busy today?” Shinsuke asks when Osamu turns around to grab something.

“Ah,” the way Osamu says this as if he’s finally noticed Shinsuke’s arrival and the completely barren shelves are testament to how hectic today is compared to normal. He’s stirring the rice, allowing the steam to escape, so that none get too soggy and damp as he answers: “One of our part timers fell ill.” Osamu pauses to soak up the beads of sweat threatening to run down his face with the towel hanging around his neck. “We couldn’t find anyone to relieve him.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “His sense of duty was so strong he tried to come into work wearing a mask.” The rice paddle waves in the air for a bit. “Don’t worry, I sent him home with a stern notice and a few onigiris. Couldn’t run to the conbini in time otherwise sports drinks and vitamin water would have be nice. Cough drops for sure.”

Shinsuke looks at Osamu. It’s obvious the high school boy is no more. But sometimes he catches himself wondering how much he still thinks of Osamu as a kouhai from those years. That’ll be rude to Osamu so he keeps it to himself. Tucks it away like an envelope in the corner of his mind to observe the individual before him.

“Let me help.”

“But—” Osamu starts and for a moment Shinsuke wonders if he can show his determination to Osamu by switching their caps. He holds back.

Worse comes to worse he’ll stay at Osamu’s just like the last time he visited with yuzu daikon in hand. Grandmother will understand. “You can barely manage it now,” he points out at the long line of customers and a very flustered part timer who keeps looking back for his boss’ assistance. “Let me help.”

Osamu relents, handing over the standard t-shirt and cap combo. But only releases Shinsuke after he takes a quick snap “for memories’ sake.” ( Only later does he find out after getting a call from his grandmother about his debut on Onigiri Miya’s SNS. Shinsuke learns two things that day: grandmother’s apps have now expanded to include instagram and everyone under the sun but him follows @onigiri_miya. )

The first hour as a part-timer is a little rough. The tail end of rush hour means that there are some in a hurry to get back to work. The lag between the order and Shinsuke trying to identify the correct flavor of onigiri from the shelves adds up. He soon settles into the groove with Osamu instructing him as he forms new balls of rice at a frightening pace. _Top right_ , _second shelf left_ , _bottom center_ the way they would call out _in_ , _out_ , _mine_ , _server up_ on court — with unmistakable clarity.

“That was amazing Kita-san!” the part timer Shinsuke has yet to ask for her name exclaims when the amount of patrons have dwindled by half. “We should hire him long term!” she says with massive amounts of hope directed at Osamu.

Shinsuke laughs at the way Osamu tries to hold back from cracking up. “Sorry to disappoint you, Fujita,” Osamu says with his eyes bright, “if we hired him then we wouldn’t have any rice to make onigiri with.”

Her eyes widen as she dips into a deep bow. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize! I love your rice! It makes it more—”

“Delicious, yeah,” Osamu nods, “I’ve been spoiled. I don’t think any other brand of rice can satisfy me now.” Shinsuke shakes his head as he chuckles. Osamu must be exaggerating for his sake. Rice differs region by region, brand by brand, species by species but are, at the same time, indiscernible from another. The shifts too subtle and vary by cooking method that even if his rice were replaced by another brand it would not make much of a difference. Shinsuke doesn’t point it out. His chest feels as warm as after imbibing a warm cup of tea under cherry blossoms.

“Table two is ready for someone to take their order,” Osamu points out as the part timer rushes off. But not before she bows yet again in Shinsuke’s direction. Shinsuke returns it.

“She’s energetic,” Shinsuke notes.

“Yeah,” Osamu says, his eyes are no longer on table two, “I hired good kids.”

That statement makes Shinsuke feel Osamu’s age. He takes a good look at Osamu. His shoulders have broadened and filled out. Or maybe that’s the illusion a black shirt gives off.

Shinsuke thinks of spring, of blossom, of care put into every layer of a lacquered box and arriving hours ahead of time to secure a good spot for flower viewing. Shinsuke thinks of summer, of rice paddies, of being able to discern between weeds and stalks of rice under the undivided attention of the sun. Shinsuke thinks of autumn and wonders what it would look like: rice crops turned to gold or the front of Onigiri Miya littered with golden ginko leaves? Shinsuke thinks of winter, of yuzu daikon, of _am I allowed to fall_ —

“How should I repay you?” Osamu asks.

What need is there to repay when Shinsuke has been on the receiving end of such kindness for a long time now?

He’s about to put it into words when the door slides open to signify the arrival of another customer.

“We’ll discuss the details later,” Osamu says, serious.

The tables have been wiped clean. Every corner has been disinfected. The toilet in the back has been scrubbed down. The kitchen is spotless. They are in the midst of putting up the chairs on the table when Osamu asks again: “how should I repay you?”

It’s a bit too formal. Sounds like Osamu’s first email without the bumbling mistakes of an amateur. Shinsuke finds himself frowning. He sets the chair on the table, its legs pointing towards the ceiling. “Treat me to something,” he decides. Monetary compensation will disrupt what they have comfortably settled in.

A grin breaks across Osamu’s face.

“Let’s do something you’ve never done before.”

They arrive at an establishment with floor to ceiling windows and a lighted green sign boasting its name: Café Absinthe. One half of the place is flooded green, a bar counter spanning its length, and a wall of bottles boasting the variety it houses. The other half looks like any other restaurant: homey yellow lights, sleek black chairs, and a kitchen area where you can witness the action.

“This is a great restaurant with Mediterranean fare,” Osamu introduces as he pushes open the door. They get escorted to the yellow side, leaving behind the individuals leaning against the counter and far too intimately towards each other. “They are famous for their absinthe cocktails,” Osamu says with a chuckle as he points at their name. “I thought it would be a neat place for you to try,” he adds when they are seated, nodding in the direction of the wall behind Shinsuke. “Every month they allow different artists to come display their works. Doesn’t matter if you are an amateur or a professional. It’s like an art gallery of sorts.”

Osamu looks through the menu, then props it up and leans forward as if about to reveal trade secrets. “I heard they don’t charge artists for displaying their works here. They don’t even take commission fees if the works sell!” He sits back in his chair, content.

Shinsuke smiles. “You pay attention to the details,” Shinsuke remarks. It’s not surprising. He always had. Whether or not he voiced them was another matter all together.

And before his words can be interpreted with the wrong intent and kick up a wave of regrets, Shinsuke adds: “thank you for telling me.”

After he places his order, Shinsuke turns around to take a proper look at the piece of art hanging behind him.

All meals are sandwiched by giving thanks. Even in a space that screams modernity, Shinsuke remains unchanged.

Somewhere between splitting a chocolate gateau and Shinsuke trying an absinthe for the first time in his life, Osamu mentions: “there’s another place I wanted to take you.”

Shinsuke is still captivated by the way absinthe is prepared. A ritual involving only a few simple elements: a chilled glass, absinthe, a spoon so decorative and leaf like Shinsuke didn’t understand what it was for, a single sugar cube, and a drip filled with cold water. It required patience as the water trickled down, dissolving the sugar, taking the crystals with it as it slips past the porous spoon and into the absinthe below. How the clear emerald liquid slowly transition into a murky light green color. The final swirl. The way it tastes against his tongue more herbal than he’s used to. It burns the back of his throat, but not unwelcome in the heat that it spreads.

“Oh?” Shinsuke says as he takes another sip, finding it more refreshing as he goes. _It’s meant for summer days_ , Osamu had said, _6pm, French evenings_.

“If you aren’t adverse,” Osamu says carefully, while drinking the melon green fairy. Shinsuke can tell how strong it is by the tint of red in his cheeks and the way his motions are getting a bit more languid than usual. “To bars.”

“Do you go often?” Shinsuke finds himself asking. The cocktail glass returns to the saucer with a doily.

“Mmm,” Osamu nods. “Different ones. Different nights.” A dismissive wave. “Sometimes I need to clear my head.”

Shinsuke waits.

“Sometimes it gets too lonely by myself.”

The confession is lost amidst the chatter and conversations of other customers, but Shinsuke catches it. And the _don’t tell ‘Sumu I said that_ look of sheepishness woven onto his face as he empties his glass of liquor.

“I don’t think I will mind,” Shinsuke allows. _Not if it’s you_ , he swallows with absinthe.

Osamu beams. “Bar Yoshida is my favorite. Pretty vintage. You’d like it.” The words slur a bit. Shinsuke knows the rim of his glass doesn’t hide the curves of his smile well. “They make their own original cocktails with shochu. Change it up every month so you don’t get bored. Even,” leaning forward, cupping a hand over his mouth, “use local fruits available each season as the main feature.” He nods, satisfied with himself.

“Let me take you there next time.”

“Okay,” Shinsuke says, noting how the alcohol has woven its way into his system, making him linger on the _next time_ a little longer.

Himeji Castle sits to their backs, impressive white walls looming over the city like a guardian, floating upon clouds of perfectly pruned pine trees. Shrine to one side, Kokoen to the other. And hundreds of stalls are set up in between as individuals mill about, showing off their latest yukata.

Shinsuke arrives on the last day of Himeji Oshiro Matsuri. Grandmother had made sure both of them demonstrated the spirit of the festival. Her yukata has a lavender base flecked with pink sakura petals finished off by a white obi. A small cherry blossom clip decorates her silver hair. Shinsuke’s is plainer: a deep cerulean blue without any patterns, paired with a maroon obi, topped with a teal ombré haori. Mume-san has also come along, wanting to catch the Yosakoi dance festival. She escorts grandmother away, leaving Shinsuke behind.

Shinsuke pulls out his phone and wonders where Onigiri Miya’s stall is.

“Kitaaaaa-san!!” someone calls out. Shinsuke turns his head and notices the familiar banner and uniform part timers wear. “Over here!” Fujita exclaims with an enthusiastic wave of her hand.

The stall is a bit cramped. Osamu is kneading rice into shape but he flashes a smile in Shinsuke’s direction. Fujita’s taking care of the register and the other part timer Shinsuke has never met is wedged between the two, a minor scowl on his face.

“He’s the one who helped us out when you were sick!” she continues to fill the unfamiliar individual in as Shinsuke approaches. Shinsuke can’t help the smile that forms on his lips. “Thank him!” It comes out a little aggressive and gets paired with a hand that shoves his head down for him.

“No need,” Shinsuke raises his hand to say. He didn’t do it for them anyway.

His gaze returns to Osamu.

“Do you need my help today?”

“No, no, not at all!” Fujita speaks up again, hands flapping in front of her. “In fact I think we are good here.” Shinsuke observes the few individuals who stop by for an onigiri or two. A line has yet to form. “You haven’t taken a break yet, right boss?” She says with a dramatic nudge and winks at Osamu in a painfully obvious fashion. Shinsuke coughs into his fist. “Don’t come back ‘til you’re full!” she hollers with a wave of her hand as Osamu folds up his apron and steps out of the stall.

Osamu is awfully quiet today as he walks in step with Shinsuke. Must be from embarrassment.

“I think your ‘kids’ have ended up adopting you,” he remarks with a curl of his lips, turning to observe Osamu.

The gradually receding sun and the lanterns that turn on cast an orange glow to dark hair. The words that come next are quiet. “Stop teasing me, Shinsuke.”

It passes like a rare moment of vulnerability, before Shinsuke can do anything about it. He can only wind his hand around Osamu’s wrist, an apology that neither of them want on the tip of his tongue, and pull him forward to stalls steeped in nostalgia of childhood summers.

“‘Sumu stopped by yesterday and brought a few members from his team. Bokuto-san has never seen the parade before,” Osamu says with a platter of takoyaki in hand. He holds one out for Shinsuke. Peace is made in the tiny moments of acceptance. Shinsuke opens his mouth to let the steam escape as he chews. Osamu chuckles and then averts his eyes when Shinsuke looks at him.

“What?” Shinsuke asks with a raise of his brow.

“I used to think our captain had no weaknesses.” It’s his turn to tease Shinsuke.

“I’m still human,” Shinsuke says it in a manner of fact tone, “I still have things I dislike.”

“I know that now.”

This time Osamu blows on the ball of takoyaki. Not that it makes much of a difference. But it is the thought that counts.

Osamu spots a stall selling bubble tea and gets one for Shinsuke, adjusted perfectly in terms of sugar and ice. “How did you know?” Shinsuke asks. He cradles the drink in both hands while leaning forward to slurp up boba.

“Aran takes his the same way.” Osamu turns around. They are in front of a stall selling masks. He has one covering half of his face as he holds the other out. A white fox design with painted red streaks, contrasted with the nearly identical black one in his own hand. Shinsuke takes it but doesn’t miss the way Osamu’s eye glints in the shadow of his mask.

( It looks a lot like hunger. )

They meander through memory lane. Crimson and black goldfishes swim through tubs as crouched individuals attempt to take them home with flimsy paper nets. A child brushes past them in a hurry, running to catch their friends, yo yo tsuri swinging from his hand. Osamu recounts how he and Atsumu would induce headaches for their parents. Every year, before heading off to the summer festivals, his mother would make them promise to be on their best behavior. They broke it every time. Until their father managed to wrestle them into compliance, seating one of them on his shoulders to watch the fireworks if they were better behaved compared to the other twin. _Obviously_ , Osamu says with a twinkle in his eyes, _it was me_. As Atsumu sulked, hand securely enveloped by his mother’s, placated by a candy apple. _It’s also why he has worse teeth than I do_ , Osamu says with a flash of his own.

They stop for shaved ice, splitting the Hawaiian Blue between the two of them like the way Shinsuke did with his grandmother as a child. Stomachs too full to handle ramune so they walk back to Onigiri Miya. Shinsuke should contact grandmother and meet up before the fireworks are set off.

Both of them refuse to let Osamu return.

“Stop him, Yamamoto-san!” she orders while cheering the other part-timer on.

“Fujita...” Osamu warns but all of them know there’s no real threat beneath.

“No one is going to be buying anything when the fireworks begin,” Yamamoto-san says as he fends off Osamu’s attempts.

“Yeah!” Fujita adds, “you should just go find a spot before they are all taken!”

“What about you two?” Osamu asks.

“We’ll just watch from here!” she chirps.

“In that case,” Shinsuke steps in, taking a quick glance at his watch, “neither of you two have taken a break. Go. We’ll watch from here.”

The protests and counter arguments die on their lips. Fujita looks between Shinsuke and Osamu and then finally grabs Yamamoto.

“Thanks!” she says with a wave of her hand as she steers Yamamoto away.

The fall back into work is an easy one. Osamu greets customers with a pleasant smile, confirms their orders, and Shinsuke grabs their orders from the shelves. Time gets forgotten when they fall into a steady rhythm. A lull in customers and they look at each other in confusion when the sky above explodes into shower of gold. Osamu slips off his cap, hand running through hair as he leans forward to stare at the sky. The lights that bloom overhead fall upon vendors, upon individuals, tainting the atmosphere with color. If one looks closely enough, they’d catch the way fireworks get reflected in eyes.

Shinsuke turns his head to stare at the sky above.

“Look at him slacking off!!” Atsumu points at the screen as he cackles. Onigiri Miya once again has _reserved for a private party_ sign out front. The store has been cleared _so that none of my regulars get scared away_ , Osamu had said. It’s a small watch party for the EJP game. The part-timers have left for the day and Osamu sits with the rest of them at a table. The mounted screen televises the game.

“H e can afford to do so because they have a good libero,” Osamu says between bites of dinner.

“I’m going to tell Akagi-san what you just said,” Atsumu threatens, pulling out his phone.

“Go ahead,” Osamu says with a smug grin, “he won’t believe you.” It’s more believable for that line to come from Atsumu’s mouth if Shinsuke didn’t know any better.

Atsumu turns to Shinsuke. “Kita-san!! Did you—” the beginning of a petulant whine that gets sharply cut off by a rag to the face. Shinsuke is almost impressed by the speed at which Osamu produces it.

“You can’t abuse your customers like this!” Atsumu yells, indignant, “I’m going to sue you!”

Osamu crosses his arm in an _oh, really?_ fashion and says: “I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. Especially foul-smelling shit for brains.”

Aran has given up shushing them, keeping an eye on the game and another one on the unfolding banter. Concern truly seeps into his expression when he catches Shinsuke laughing under his breath. Aran stares at him as if he has suddenly grown two heads and Shinsuke relies on years of self-control to resist the urge to escalate.

Neither of them step in as the banter continues. That’s the thing. They aren’t bumbling  teens anymore, not knowing how to get their words across so they resort to using fists. Needing someone else to step in before forgiveness can be demonstrated a few days later. 

As the game continues, and Shinsuke watches Suna Rintarou with a sense of pride tucked in his chest, he also observes the twins. T he apology that ensues comes in the form of another large onigiri with spring onions and toro. Atsumu licks his thumb afterwards in thanks.

“Huh,” Osamu sounds as he watches the rice dumpling flour gets dumped into the bowl.

Shinsuke looks at him.

“I just thought we would be using those,” he gestures with his hand. The stone bowl usu for the dango and a mallet kine in between both hands as he pounds it into shape. “Like the rabbits!”

Shinsuke blinks and then laughs. He’s thinking of _mochitsuki_. How cute

“What impression do you have of me, Osamu?”

Red creeps into Osamu’s cheeks. “You mislead me by using the word traditional!”

Shinsuke hums under his breath as a reply.

The harvest moon hangs heavy and low in the night sky. It illuminates the earth in its warm glow. A few clouds in its periphery are highlighted. Shinsuke watches the way the vapor from tea rises to the sky like a prayer. His grandmother’s feet are tucked neatly underneath her as she arranges the tsukimi dango into a pyramid. The one that has kabocha mixed into it sits at the very top, the yellow of the pumpkin making it resemble the moon. The blades of susuki is off to one side, placed in a clay vase to symbolize rice.

Shinsuke observes the way Osamu looks at the sky. His normally dark eyes are now tinged golden by the moon overhead. And smiles when Osamu bows his head respectfully as Obaachan ruffles his hair. Maybe next time he’ll bring out the mochitsuki supplies — if Osamu comes over to make kagami mochi for New Years.

“I’m picking Aran up tomorrow, so I thought I would call today,” Shinsuke says as he juggles his phone in between his cheek and his shoulder. Phone calls like this are an unspoken arrangement of sorts. By the time he noticed, it has become routine.

“Ah,” Osamu sounds, a little distant. Shinsuke picks up the sound of the slosh of water against the bucket. He’s on speaker. He doesn’t mind. It’s not the first time and won’t be the last. Shinsuke just chooses to hold his phone in one hand and nurse saké in the other. The engawa feels awfully large, even with the presence of the pig shaped incense burner. “I heard Coach Korosu wanted to show off a pro league player and invited him.”

Shinsuke nods out of habit.

“Did Aran tell you?”

“Nah,” it comes out more as a laugh. Shinsuke can imagine Osamu shaking his head in exasperation as he recounts: “‘Sumu came a few days ago to whine after Rintarou told him that Coach overlooked him and selected Aran instead.”

“Server award be damned,” Osamu mimics and Shinsuke cracks up. The conversation shifts, following the flow of the wind.

Nostalgia washes over Kita Shinsuke. For a moment, Shinsuke can almost feel the ghost of his old jacket draped around his shoulders as he stares at the familiar gym. Three years, endless hours, seeped in memories that directly contrast the banner that hangs proudly in its brazen bold and white lettering. Nothing has changed: the squeak of shoes against linoleum flooring, the thud of a volleyball falling to the ground, Coach’s exasperated yelling that involves his dog. 

Except now he is just an alumni, jacketless. Coach Oomi humors him on the sidelines as if in thanks for the rice Shinsuke had brought. Aran is surrounded by high schoolers who look a little star struck. _Tachibana Red Falcons_ and _V-League Division One_ and _our former ace_ is passed around in hushed whispers. One kid tries to shush the rest. Aran seems a little flustered by all the attention. Shinsuke can’t stop the laugh that arises, attempting to suppress it as a cough.

Seeing Aran’s spike brings back memories. Shinsuke’s arms sting in phantom pain.

Another demonstration. The libero attempts to get under it. It comes back a little low and out of the way for the setter. Shinsuke’s eyes sweep across the court, making mental notes, and unconsciously comments on their number 5.

“So you noticed,” Coach Korosu nods in approval, back on the sidelines as he inspects the game underplay.

“It’s just commentary from a random passerby,” Shinsuke says.

“No,” the coach replies. He’s still looking at his team, arms folded, but his words are meant for Shinsuke only. “You’ve always had insight for these sort of things.” It’s why, despite never being on court until his final year in high school, he was still entrusted with the position of captain. “I wouldn’t mind if you came by once in a while and helped me out.”

Shinsuke looks at the coach who recruited him, who handed him the jacket and a position he could only dream of. He feels a lot younger. Like the day he held the maroon jacket between his hands and was unable to hold back the tears that sprung forward.

He’s older now. If his eyes are glossy neither coaches make a comment on it.

Just because you think you left volleyball behind in high school, doesn’t mean life follows the course you envision. Kita Shinsuke knows that better than anyone.

“Thank you.”

The smile that adorns his coach’s lips is more than enough of a reply.

Aran and Kita trace familiar steps. The sky is darkening but still streaked with orange. And maybe because of his coach’s words, Shinsuke’s thoughts linger on _process_ and _results_. He still holds the same beliefs he once did: Process still holds more importance and results are a mere by product of that.

But once in a while, isn’t it fine to desire the result side of things?

They pass under the overpass. A truck rattles overhead. The lines strung from the utility poles cuts up the sky and connects households.

He’s holding up the jersey with 1 and the colorful skies of dusk help outline the moment.

“Folks don't need reasons to feel the way they feel! If it makes ya happy...Then it makes ya happy and that's fine!”

And Shinsuke laughs from the bottom of his heart. The tangle in his chest unknots itself.

Back in the present, Shinsuke halts and looks at Aran.

“Thank you,” he says, amused by the way Aran’s face betrays the confusion he feels at being thanked out of the blue, just like their younger selves when traversing down this very road.

“What for?”

“Remember that day I was made captain and you told me I didn’t have to justify why I felt happy?”

The confusion still lingers in Aran’s face. Shinsuke chuckles.

“Thank you,” he repeats, “I’ve decided not to bother with the fussy details.”

Of course there are questions, Aran probably doesn’t even know where to begin, but Shinsuke doesn’t feel particularly inclined to give him context. Maybe later. After a drink or two with a good meal settled in their stomachs.

“As thanks I’ll treat you to dinner,” he offers. Aran takes him up on it and it almost feels like the old days.

Shinsuke isn’t quite sure when Osamu ceased to be just a kouhai. Perhaps as early as the email that arrived out of the blue with all the uncertainty of an individual in charge of their first start up. It begins with _Kita-san_ , _I hope this finds you well_ reminding Shinsuke of wearing those same shoes just a few years prior. Either way, it was a simple business proposition that instilled within Shinsuke hope: relationships don’t end when the convenience of proximity falls apart. Even if they do, they can still be rekindled, forged anew.

So if you were to ask Shinsuke to identify the origin of this emotion — of the point where Osamu ceased to be a kouhai from volleyball club and became something _more_ — he can only shrug. Their lives have become entangled. Shinsuke doesn’t want to extricate himself from it.

At the end of the day, isn’t that more than enough justification for the emotion that settles beneath his breastbone? Even if he can’t isolate the point of origin, every day, every moment, these emotions fluttering in his rib cage counts. Even if he can’t isolate the point of origin, every day, every moment, these emotions fluttering in his rib cage serve as reminders when they feel a little stronger than the day before.

Shinsuke looks down at the sticker Osamu had sent and smiles.

Isn’t this more than enough?

And although Shinsuke isn’t the type to focus on results, he chooses go forth just this once:

Are you free this weekend? I have something I want to say to you.

Shinsuke arrives at Onigiri Miya on a Friday night, just an hour before closing. There’s a sense of familiarity, not unlike returning to his own home, as he brushes aside the noren. The door rattles a little as it gives and slides open. Heads turn. A fleeting curiosity before the food and companions draw them back to their own lives. A few pair of eyes linger a fraction longer. The part timers, Yamamoto-san and Fujita-san, incline their heads to greet him. Shinsuke bows his head in return.

Osamu’s eyes never leave him. His lips are curled into a smile upon Shinsuke’s arrival and Shinsuke knows his expression mirrors Osamu’s. He takes a seat at the bar.

Shinsuke lends a hand as the last few customers trickle out. Osamu allows Yamamoto and Fujita to return home earlier. The door slides shut. Osamu walks to the side wall and flips off the lights for outside and does a quick count of the signs. After he is satisfied, the rags are in their designated bags and the mops are hung by the back wall, Osamu takes a seat next to Shinsuke. He looks out of place, perched on the stool and attempting to look comfortable. Maybe it is because Shinsuke is used to Osamu behind the counter or walking about.

There’s no need to speak in circles. They aren’t like that.

“Would you like to go out with me?” Shinsuke says.

There’s a moment of silence. It’s a little itchy. Not like them at all. But their gazes meet and Shinsuke’s not sure who starts laughing first. It cracks out of him like the first pop of a can for a carbonated beverage. All the bubbles rushing to meet the surface, free from where they were forced to be dissolved.

And when the gas finds the rate of diffusion it can settle for, Osamu smiles at Shinsuke. It’s of unbridled warmth.

“Yeah,” Osamu says, “very much so.”

There’s no grand declaration. Nothing dramatic to commemorate this moment. But the hands that are on the counter, just shy of brushing against each other, open. Osamu’s hand unfurls, light falling into the palm of his hand. The tip of Shinsuke’s fingers touch the pads of Osamu’s before sliding to fit them together.

Osamu’s eyes never leave him. Shinsuke feels a gentle squeeze and returns it.

It’s not a whim. Shinsuke hopes Osamu understands that. Something tells him that Osamu already does.

24 hours later, Shinsuke is up to his elbows in soap suds. Every time Osamu tries to get him to stop, Shinsuke slaps his hands away. The suds fly a little, painfully obvious against the black uniform of Onigiri Miya. It makes both of them chuckle a little.

At one point Shinsuke has a knife in one pink rubber gloved hand ( and the sponge in the other ) as he threatens: “just because we are dating now doesn’t mean we have to change.” It’s a thinly veiled _you never seemed to mind when I helped out so why now_. Shinsuke watches the way red tinges Osamu’s ears and Osamu’s valiant attempt to not let it show on his face. So Shinsuke concedes.

“We can wash the dishes together.”

Shinsuke passes a newly washed dish to Osamu who dries it.

“I felt bad,” Osamu says as the places the dried plate in the rack, “You’re driving home tomorrow. I’ve spent all day at work and—”

There’s a soft sigh before Osamu confesses “I’ve thought a lot about our first date.”

It’s Shinsuke’s turn to feel a little warm. He scrubs the plate with a little more fervor.

Osamu chuckles, shaking his head. “Not that I was certain it was ever going to happen. But there’s no harm in letting your mind wander a little.”

Curious, Shinsuke asks: “where did you want to take me?”

Osamu hums under his breath. “Not sure.”

“What do normal people do when they date each other?” Shinsuke rephrases.

“Go to places?” Osamu swaps the positioning of a plate with a bowl. “Aquariums, amusement parks, the newest café.”

“Aren’t those things you do in high school?”

“Is there an age limit to those places?”

“No,” Shinsuke says. “But I always assumed enjoying each other’s company was all that was needed to count as a _date_.” He allows the water to run off the pot before passing it to Osamu. “Like now.”

Nothing really changes. Just an increased frequency in Osamu’s drive out to Kita Farm and Shinsuke selecting random weekends to visit Onigiri Miya. Osamu never arrives empty handed, Shinsuke always has bags of rice in his truck. If anything has changed it’s Osamu’s growing cheekiness and the way Obaachan is infinitely charmed by him. If anything has changed it’s the part-timers treating Shinsuke like their manager.

In hindsight, from another person’s point of view, Osamu and Shinsuke’s relationship probably looks like they are following the natural progression of events — given how intertwined their lives have become. But that would be rude to both Osamu and Shinsuke who walked into this relationship with their eyes wide open.

Christmas arrives at their doorstep after his field is filled with water and the streets are blanketed in white. After the storks have come and gone. After the swans and ducks claim the fields as their own. Christmas arrives at their genkan in the form of Miya Osamu with a box in his hand. Another fancy English inscription in gold against black and Shinsuke knows it is the yule log cake grandmother was talking about a month ago.

( Actually, Osamu bought two. The other one goes into the fridge for when Mume-san stops by. )

Christmas doesn’t have any significant value in Shinsuke’s mind. All he knows, apart from class parties and decorative lights, is that it’s considered lover’s day in every drama his grandmother watches. Why anyone would put yet another holiday to celebrate romantic love so close to February beats Shinsuke. So watching his grandmother clap along to the tunes sung by Osamu in a velvet suit stirs something within Shinsuke.

For a moment, however brief, the thought that he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life like this crosses his mind.

He stares at the slices of Bûche de Noël and the one on his plate. Shovels a piece into his mouth and finds the sweet cream perfect.

“Oh if it isn’t Osamu-chan!” Ito-san who lives two houses down from Shinsuke’s calls out as they make their daily afternoon run. Both of them are sporting a coat, grandmother’s knitted cap and gloves protecting them from the wind chill, each exhale puffed out of their lungs like smoke. They slow and jog in place.

Surprise settles over Shinsuke as he watches Osamu bow. “How are you, Ito-san?” Osamu asks. Shinsuke wonders when this small community has adopted Osamu into their fold.

The warmth that radiates in his chest is one part exercise and two parts love.

“Could I ask you for a favor?” Sato-san requests. It’s hard to say no with a tub of yuzu daikon in her hands.

“Of course!” Osamu answers easily and Shinsuke suspects he would have said the same thing with or without the pickled radishes.

“You don’t have to,” Shinsuke finds himself saying after Osamu has finished prepping for tomorrow. Their elbows are pressed against each other as their lower halves are warmed by the kotatsu.

Osamu’s fingers halt mid orange peel and turns to hold Shinsuke’s gaze. “I know.”

It evokes something in Shinsuke. Perhaps it’s the idea that Osamu, too, has started to consider himself a member of this community — no longer a visitor from afar.

And because Shinsuke knows his grandmother is asleep, he fists the front of Osamu’s shirt and pulls him in for a kiss. He watches through his lashes the surprise that registers, the hands that come to cradle the back of Shinsuke’s head, the heave of the chest, and lets go. Shinsuke licks his lips when he notices how Osamu’s eyes are dark and dilated. Shinsuke tucks his feet under him and rises, collects their empty cups and heads to the kitchen.

The clear ring of the bell echoes through the courtyard. The tossed coin clanks against the wood of the offering box. Shinsuke’s head is bowed in prayer, not necessarily wishing for anything. Grandmother can take his share and use it for her heart’s desire, but Shinsuke has an inkling she’ll use it on his health and marriage. Thus Shinsuke prays for her longevity and good health in return.

They wait in line to purchase omamori. Grandmother has always emphasized how amulets are an annual renewal of vows with the gods and Shinsuke has always kept them close because his grandmother believes. This year Osamu accompanies them. Grandmother almost gets him one of each type before Osamu convinces her the one for business is more than enough.

“ _Obaachan_ ,” it slips out before Shinsuke can stop it, “am I your grandson or is Osamu your grandson?”

“Didn’t you know?” Osamu gloats, treasuring the charm in its package with both hands, “I was adopted the day I called her _Obaachan_.”

“Your parents would weep if they heard you,” grandmother giggles. “But thank you Osamu-chan, for considering me your honorary grandmother.”

Osamu answers by pressing his lips to her cheek. Shinsuke watches the way his grandmother laughs in delight. His heart unfurls in his chest. What a way to begin the new year.

Fortune is found in omikuji. The designated areas for the slips of paper with bad luck are almost filled. Shinsuke looks at the slip with small fortune on it. It reminds him of that one year he ran into other members of his club after visiting a shrine with his friends. The pieces of paper flutter under the wind’s orchestration. Shinsuke looks at where Osamu and grandmother are tying up their slips.

Small but certain happiness, as promised.

This year it falls on the Kita’s to prepare for mochitsuki. Last night, Osamu had plunged his hands into cold water and washed and soaked enough rice for the community to share. This morning, Shinsuke had risen early to steam it.

It’s worth it.

Their community gathers round as they cheer their youngest members on. Osamu’s eyes twinkles as he holds the mallet in his hand and Shinsuke turns the slowly forming mochi in the mortar. Half way through, Osamu’s forehead is lined with sweat, the enthusiasm in his eyes faded. Shinsuke knows that both of them will smell like salonpas the day after. They continue until no individual rice grains can be seen. Until the surface is smooth and shiny.

It’s worth it.

The mochi gets transferred onto mochiko, separated, cooled, and passed around. Osamu’s _mmmmmm_ and look of bliss as if he’s never had mochi in his life gives Shinsuke the illusion that his arm is less sore.

Shinsuke takes a bite when grandmother feeds him. There’s a sense of accomplishment that accompanies being a part of the whole process — from beginning to end. From tiny stalks seeded into paddies to harvest to shaping it into a snack that nourishes everyone. The faces of happiness that surround him. The _Shinsuke-kun, this year’s mochi was delicious_ and other comments. All of them slowly build and spill from his eyes.

The result side of things renders him unable to do anything but thank them for looking after him.

Onigiri Miya is crowded with congratulations and old faces. Again, Osamu has chosen to dismiss the part-timers and relieve them from the craziness of Inarizaki’s volleyball club alumnus. So of course he gets swamped with orders and Shinsuke steps away from the national team celebrations and champagne to lend Osamu a hand.

Osamu’s hurriedly uttered “you don’t have to—” gets cut off when Shinsuke tugs off Osamu’s cap and puts it on his own head.

“I won’t bring your brand down,” Shinsuke says. “Besides,” he nods in the direction of a visibly tipsy Atsumu, “I think he wants to hear you congratulate him for making the national team.”

Osamu scowls. It is half hearted and doesn’t reach his eyes. He slips out of his apron. Shinsuke thoroughly washes his hands and makes a mentaiko onigiri to order and almost doesn’t notice Aran grabbing the chair in front of him.

“You look happy lately,” Aran observes. There’s still half a glass of champagne in one hand and a fresh onigiri in the other.

There are many ways Shinsuke can respond to that. _I have many reasons to be_ , he can say, pointing out how they are gathered to throw Miya Atsumu and Ojiro Aran a party. Inarizaki High has produced two national team members. Coach must be so proud. But this is Aran. Aran who has simplified things for Shinsuke since the very beginning.

So Shinsuke says: “it’s all thanks to you.”

He chuckles at the confusion that crosses Aran’s face as he sets the plate of freshly made onigiri in front of Aran. Ren scowls a _wasn’t that for me?_ that Shinsuke promptly ignores. ( He starts making another one. )

“I stopped over complicating things,” Shinsuke says. His gaze follows Osamu as both Rintarou and Osamu rib Atsumu. “And chased results for once.”

Shinsuke identifies the question marks on Aran’s face but doesn’t bother expanding past that. “Let’s go get bubble tea sometime,” Shinsuke says instead.

Some friendships remain easy. Uncomplicated in the way they reconnect, undisrupted by time.

“Obachan,” Shinsuke says to one of the auntie regulars and points, feeling giddy at seeing Atsumu on screen in red, surrounded by familiar faces as they prepare to represent Japan in the Olympic Stadium, “look!”

“He was on my team back in high school,” he explains. It’s a little silly but Shinsuke is overflowing with a sense of pride and hopes the regulars of Onigiri Miya will forgive him.

On screen Atsumu is conversing with Kageyama.

“Oh my! You’re right!” Suzuki-san exclaims, “He’s just as handsome as Osamu-chan.”

“Heh heh!” Shinsuke chuckles, pleased.

“Mm! Now this here is one delicious rice ball,” Yoshida-san says in absolute bliss. Shinsuke smiles knowingly.

“There’s Aran-kun!” Osamu points out with glee.

Shinsuke looks at the screen. Aran and Atsumu behave like the old days but with edges rounded out. Osamu stands in front of the mounted TV, laughing at their shenanigans. Shinsuke’s heart blooms as he boasts: “Well? What do you think? Aren’t my old teammates amazing?” Fulfilling an eight year old desire to show off how amazing his teammates are.

The regulars stay until the end of the game. Osamu gets called away for a take out order and Shinsuke watches as he heads in their direction. Osamu strikes up a quick conversation with the customer about the match and decides to put their order on the house.

Shinsuke doesn’t really need to see to know what expression he wears on his face. But he still overhears Suzuki-san’s _the one Kita-kun wants to boast about is the one right by his side_ and _just now too — he was making such a smug face when Osamu-chan made onigiri_.

Maybe he was a bit too careless, relaxed a bit too much. But none of this matters when his phone rings and Obaachan’s voice is heard on the other end.

“Aran-kun and Atsumu-kun were amazing weren’t they?”

Regulars who now know Shinsuke by name can’t compare to grandmother’s one line. “Yeah,” Shinsuke says, voice betraying him.

“I made sure to tell Mume-chan and her children!” grandmother continues to boast. “Look! Those were Shin-chan’s teammate! And that blonde one is Osamu-chan’s twin!”

Shinsuke’s face almost hurts from how wide it stretches.

“Mume-chan almost thought Osamu-chan had dyed his hair and joined the national team,” she chuckles. Shinsuke watches Osamu return to entertain Suzuki-san and Yoshida-san. “She was impressed by the thought that Osamu-chan ran a restaurant while playing professional volleyball!”

“But everyone has some thing they are good at,” grandmother continues. The same way she says _someone is always watching_. Whether that be god. Or a coach. Or Shinsuke.

“And some thing that they are love to do.” Shinsuke watches the way Osamu grab some of his personally pickled collection for Suzuki-san and Yoshi-san to try.

“I would be sad if I never got to try Osamu-chan’s onigiri.”

Shinsuke echoes the sentiment.

The heat of summer doesn’t dissipate even after the sun sinks beyond the horizon. But the oppression of heat does loosen its grip a little as time traipse towards the tail end of this season. Yet for some reason, Shinsuke has made a tradition out of warm saké on nights like these. A bright moon with sparse clouds. A lover seated on the engawa with his eyes closed as if a breeze would arrive at any moment. The furin that stirs but doesn’t tinkle.

Shinsuke brings out the saké. Osamu notices and opens his eyes despite the whir of cicadas.

Shinsuke hovers over Osamu as Osamu receives the tray with both hands and sets it to the side. The movement shifts Osamu’s jinbei, exposing more skin than normal. Shinsuke bends down and allows his fingers to tangle into that ebony colored hair touched by moonlight. He tips Osamu’s chin with his other hand to fit their lips together. He traces Osamu’s lower lip with his tongue before tugging on it gently, waiting for the moans to surface. And allows himself to be pulled into Osamu’s lap.

Osamu breaks away first to catch his breath. Lips a little swollen but they glisten due to Shinsuke’s saliva and under moonshine. It’s pretty, Shinsuke finds. The blush dotted across Osamu’s cheeks, the thrum of a heart racing under his fingertips, and the dark of the pupils that quietly ask for more.

This is a different kind of hunger. It sits lower. The kind that wants to make mine rather than share.

This isn’t the first and this won’t be the last.

“Well?” Osamu exhales when Shinsuke tugs his head back with a hand tangled with Osamu’s hair. “What are you waiting for?”

And Shinsuke makes sure the next word Osamu is able to form is his name and his name only.

The flowers in the vase are new. Shinsuke has just finished cleaning the butsudan and is about to light a stick of incense when he hears the pad of feet against tatami.

“If you’re here, join me,” Shinsuke says. Something he should have said a long time ago when he first noticed Osamu’s respectful distance during Shinsuke’s morning routine. But the Kita ancestors aren’t so narrow minded to mind someone who means no harm to their descendants.

The wince that crosses Osamu’s face as he kneels before the alter does not escape Shinsuke. He has to remind himself to keep his expressions neutral.

Shinsuke lights a stick of incense and repeats the usual prayers before passing it to Osamu. Osamu takes it gingerly with both hands, his facial expressions a bit stiff and Shinsuke wonders if he’s crossed a line somehow. Osamu faces the Kita ancestors and bows his head in silence. It reminds Shinsuke of the first time he stumbled upon Osamu doing the same thing — hands pressed together rather than curled around incense. And when Shinsuke takes the stick back and places it in the bed of ash, he can’t help but ask: “what did you pray for?”

Osamu holds his gaze with a sense of assuredness that he didn’t have the first time around.

“That you don’t end up with a sprained back.”

The corners of Osamu’s lips twitch and Shinsuke waits until they are in the kitchen to kiss it off him.

Shinsuke feels a little inadequate with just a bag of rice in his arms. He knows he shouldn’t be. This is a product of months of hard work. But it isn’t those fancy boutique bags with scripted lettering on the side; a name, when repeated, induces awe into everyone who receives it.

The thoughts disappear when the door flings open. Osamu’s mother’s eyes are wide in surprise, shifting between her son and Shinsuke.

Shinsuke bows as she exclaims: “ah this is rare!”

“You really should come home more often,” she chides Osamu, “but also warn me beforehand if you are bringing someone with you!” Then bows in Shinsuke’s direction.

“Kita Shinsuke,” Shinsuke introduces himself as he presents the rice.

Shinsuke wonders if he’s a Miya household name because the moment he does, she responds with a: “thank you for looking after my sons!” And while she thanks Shinsuke excessively for the thoughtfulness of coming with a gift, she gushes about the convenience store bag from years ago. Shinsuke straightens his shoes and wonders why a conbini collection of drinks and umeboshi would elicit such a response. Isn’t this something any decent senior would have done for their underclassman?

The conversation shifts to being her son’s supplier. Shinsuke listens and lends her a hand in the kitchen.

“I wish I had a son like you,” she sighs at some point.

“My grandmother is quite charmed with yours,” Shinsuke finds himself responding.

There’s a curl of a smile on her lips that Shinsuke recognizes as pride.

The visit ends with Osamu’s parents seeing them off and his father saying: “you should come by more often.”

Shinsuke knows it is just lip service. A part of common courtesy extended to your child’s business partner. But for a moment Shinsuke allows himself to interpret it as something else.

In the safety of the car, Shinsuke allows their hands to intertwine.

“They liked you,” Osamu tells him. The car is still parked. The only light is from the street lamp a meter away. It casts shadows over their faces. They are almost unrecognizable in the rear view mirror. “It’s hard not to.”

The last part comes out like a confession. Shinsuke traces the edge of Osamu’s nail with the tip of his finger and smiles.

The early hours before Onigiri Miya are open for business and before the part-timers walk in through the door, Osamu prepares for the day ahead. Rice is washed, cooked, then shaped. While waiting, ingredients get prepared. Whether that is refilling their konbu stock or stir frying salmon, Osamu makes a thorough check so they don’t run out hours into opening.

Today, Shinsuke joins him. Rice becoming a triangle in their hands and then carefully wrapped in plastic specifically designed for easy eating.

Their fingers accidentally brush against each other as they're reaching for the rice paddle. Mischief overcomes Osamu as he grabs Shinsuke’s hand and brings it towards his mouth. Shinsuke responds by playfully slapping his cheek. It makes no sound.

“Not the time,” Shinsuke says as he pulls his hand back. He washes his hand, still feeling Osamu’s breath against it, before he continues working.

“Oh, you’re the supplier!”

Shinsuke looks up from where he stands on the back of his truck. His gloved hands are reaching for rice tucked securely in a far corner. Shinsuke recognizes the man as one of the regulars. _He comes to every MSBY Black Jackals game_ , Osamu had whispered into Shinsuke’s ear during one of the times he substituted for a part-timer. Shinsuke thinks he’s seen him during his high school days rooting for Inarizaki in the stands, but he could be mistaken.

Shinsuke bows. Then wonders if the man doesn’t recognize him because of how he’s dressed. He’s in his usual blue gray work clothes rather than the black t-shirt with an onigiri symbol most regulars associate him with. He takes off his cap while he is at it.

The regular sucks in a breath through his teeth. Shinsuke looks up. “The—“ he says as if racking his brain for information “captain. Miya twins, runner up during Interhigh where we managed to win a set off Itachiyama in the finals.”

Inarizaki High has continued to hold its record and status as a power house long after Kita Shinsuke left. To think that someone would remember him like this... his heart twinges in his chest.

Shinsuke nods. “Kita Shinsuke. Thank you for remembering me.”

The man laughs, a little sheepish. “I almost couldn’t recognize you.” And then with a sweeping look at the back of Shinsuke’s truck he adds: “so this is how you continue to watch over your team.”

It makes his heart swell a bit.

“Your rice is delicious,” the regular says, “thanks to you I had a good meal!”

Shinsuke thanks him in return and bends at the waist, keeping his eyes downcast for a few long seconds.

His heart is filled to the brim with a warmth that stays long after the regular has waved goodbye and walked off.

It doesn’t matter how many gymnasiums and stadiums you’ve been in. The one you’ve been in longest, the one where you’ve spent all your youth, is the one that evokes the most emotions. Shinsuke recognizes it in the lines of Osamu’s face as he steps into Inarizaki’s gym. The bags of onigiri he’s brought hang limply from his hands. Shinsuke watches the rise and fall of Osamu’s chest and understands. This was him too when he accompanied Aran. And slowly desensitized over the visits.

Coach Korosu and Oomi approach and introduce them to the current team. _Is that national team’s Miya Atsumu? No, you dumbass. Weren’t you listening?_ _Coach said Miya Osamu_. The whispers circulate. Shinsuke studies Osamu’s face. It doesn’t seem to bother him.

“I get that a lot,” Osamu explains on the way home, “especially when I’m manning the stall while an MSBY game is in play.” Which, is to say, all the time. Osamu shrugs. He’s long made peace with it.

“It bothers Atsumu a lot more than it bothers me.”

Practice ended a little earlier than Shinsuke and Osamu remember it being. Maybe it was the rice balls that made the coaches a bit kinder. Maybe it was Shinsuke and Osamu being roped into demonstrations. Either way it ends while there is still a little bit of light out. The sky hasn’t plummeted into dark blues, still streaked with day.

“Do you mind if we stop by the convenience store?” Osamu asks. Shinsuke shakes his head and trails after Osamu.

Osamu goes to the counter, points at the nikuman, and pays. As he heads out, he tears it apart down the middle, and hands one half to Shinsuke with a tissue.

Shinsuke accepts it, watching it steam a little. Osamu shoves it into his mouth, mind elsewhere. They stop by a utility pole. If they continue in that direction it’ll be the Miya household.

“We used to get hungry after practice but mom would always have dinner ready for us at home,” Osamu says, the look in his eye far away. “So we would stop by the conbini, grab a meat bun, split it in half so we still had room for dinner.”

Shinsuke is certain that Osamu would still be able to finish dinner even after having a full meat bun but keeps it to himself. He sinks his teeth into the nikuman. Another ritual that has changed over time.

Another one they could make theirs.

Shinsuke finishes it. Osamu reaches out for him. The street is empty. Fingers curl around his wrist, pulling his hand towards Osamu’s face until Osamu rests the side of his cheek in the palm of Shinsuke’s hand. His eyes are closed.

For a split second, Shinsuke sees a younger Osamu in uniform with his bag slung over his shoulder. Shinsuke uses his free hand to pat Osamu’s head the way he never did in the past.

“You should call him,” Shinsuke says. Osamu looks up. “Tell him what the kids said.”

A grin finds its way back into Osamu’s features. “Yeah,” he nods as he straightens, fingers still holding onto Shinsuke’s hand, “despite making the national team, Coach still hasn’t invited him back.”

Shinsuke shakes his head with a laugh and they walk back towards his truck.

Maple leaves have turned scarlet red. Others a shade of burnt orange or sunny yellow, shivering under the biting edge of the wind. Mitigated by the warmth of the sun. It’s the sensation one associates with the height of autumn as the Northern hemisphere ventures towards the brink of winter. Kiyomitsu-dera’s main hall stands impressively tall, veranda overlooking Kyoto, enveloped by autumn leaves attempting to cover its wooden stilts.

Shinsuke watches as Osamu guides Kita Yumie up the stairs a few flights ahead of him. Grandmother can’t seem to get a solid grip on Osamu’s hand and Osamu quickly slides it off, once again offering his hand to her. It’s colder than expected today. Bit at Shinsuke’s hand before he tucked it away in his pocket. And so that sort of gesture... Shinsuke witnesses his grandmother’s face blossom with a smile could rival the beauty of this famous Kyoto tourist spot.

They come to a rest after reaching the main hall. Osamu watches as people attempt to walk the 18 meters between the two stones placed in front of Jishu Shrine. Apparently it’s a love stone, grandma reads, and for those who manage to walk from one to another will find love. There’s a far away look in her eyes. Shinsuke wonders if she is thinking of grandfather.

The wind stirs Osamu’s bangs that are flattened against his forehead by grandmother’s knitted cap. As if noticing someone watching, Osamu turns and flashes a smile in Shinsuke’s direction.

Shinsuke may not understand their behavior. Walking between two stones does not guarantee love. Finding doesn’t equate to having, holding, or maintaining. But Shinsuke sort of gets it, in a roundabout way, when he watches Osamu usher grandmother to pat Nade-Daikoku-San.

 _Daikoku to be patted. For your prayers to be answered_.

He shines, less bronze and more gold, from all the hands over the years that entrusted him with prayers to keep.

Shinsuke followed suit.

They find a place to settle down. Osamu procures a blue blanket to lay down on the ground. Tiered bento box and thermos jugs also prepared beforehand are set in the center as he pats the empty space beside him. For a brief moment Shinsuke wonders if Osamu has a pouch that belongs to a blue robot cat.

“Osamu-chan,” grandmother says as she sits next to him, “you always do so much for us.”

Shinsuke sits next to his grandmother, directly across from Osamu.

“It’s because I want to,” Osamu says as he pours her a cup of tea. She receives it with both hands. “Shinsuke told me you wanted to visit Kyoto and I haven’t been in a long time.”

Shinsuke takes a cup from Osamu, fingers brushing as he receives it. He blows on the surface of it, watching it ripple.

“But you must have came here for a school trip?”

Osamu nods. “I don’t remember much of it.”

“And it’s nice to revisit with people I like, Obaachan,” Osamu adds as he opens one of the boxes, “new memories; old places.”

After scouring the internet for opinions and a four hour long back and forth telephone conversation, Osamu and Shinsuke decided to book Iya Onsen in Tokushima prefecture as a closing statement to their fall trip.

Iya valley is breathtaking. The five minute trip on the cablecar plunges them into the gorge. It feels like they’ve stumbled across an unearthed gem. Flanked on both sides by rows of trees wearing their autumn fabrics as the car rattles towards the Iya River. The water sparkles in its emerald hue, creating a tapestry with the red leaves of autumn. The steep sides of the valley are sewn together by this single river. The hot springs juts out over the edge, as if trying to touch the banks, a cloud of steam for privacy.

In the early morning, it is said that the clouds descend, obscuring this secluded region from view. That the heavens lower themselves, anoint this place with a holy atmosphere.

Shinsuke lets out a sigh as he sinks into the warm water. His shoulders roll back and relax. Osamu wades a little closer.

The water of the onsen is cloudy. Shinsuke closes his eyes. The murmur of the river turns into background music. The occasional bird call highlighting the silence of this gorge.

They get out after a while and wait at the Madoromi no Hotori Terrace to rendezvous with his grandmother. The sound of whistling wind as it crosses the valley and stirs the trees accents this afternoon. Grandmother comes out soon after Shinsuke and Osamu have lounged and finished a cup of water. Her face is slightly red from the heat of the hot springs but she smiles happily.

“Ah,” she exclaims after sipping some water, “how nice would it be to come in winter. A yukimi onsen trip!”

“We could come again,” Shinsuke says, looking in Osamu’s direction. Surely, this place would be lovely in winter as well, watching the snow dissolve into onsen. Osamu nods.

“No!” grandmother frowns. “I’m going with Mume-chan! It gets lonely while soaking in the hot springs alone. You at least have Osamu-chan!”

And at that Shinsuke chuckles because it’s true. Despite the relative silence, the company was more than enough. Someone to wait for in the moments often overlooked, become memories of their own.

The kaiseki course is just as impressive as this hotel tucked in the heart of Tokushima’s dense forested mountains. Apparently they strive to use local ingredients in their cuisine, Osamu rattles off the facts, the art on the walls are by Hideki Kimura to capture the nature and beauty of this remote place. Shinsuke listens as he tastes the buckwheat grain soup. _There are only three saké breweries in Miyoshi_ , Osamu continues as he beckons a staff to place an order. _Let’s try it_.

Osamu slices the Wagyu beef and swaps it with grandmother’s uncut one. It stirs something in Shinsuke. Perhaps shame at not doing it first? No. Fondness.

His lips remained curled into a smile right through tasting the green tea pudding for dessert.

The alcohol is still in his veins even as they visit the Kazurabashi Vine Bridge via a hotel operated shuttle. Not that Osamu seems to mind, holding both of Shinsuke’s hands with a small smile as they explore parts of the bridge. Grandmother waits for them by the shuttle bus. The illumination of the bridge is still too dark and everyone is far too occupied by the canvas overhead to notice Shinsuke pulling Osamu in for a kiss.

It’s also far too dark to see if Osamu’s face gets tainted with red. What a pity.

Shinsuke hums under his breath and heads towards his grandmother. He stops a few meters away and looks up at the sky. A plethora of stars, a field of beauty, almost within reach.

Shinsuke closes his eyes then opens them when he feels someone bump against his back. There’s a hand that reaches for the twinkling lights of night, closes around that star, and brings the hand close to Shinsuke. Shinsuke doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is. A laugh makes its way out of his chest. The hand unfurls and of course there’s nothing in it. Shinsuke places his hand in Osamu’s, laces them together, and tugs him towards grandmother.

Breakfast comes in a prettily arranged basket that gets documented by both Osamu and grandmother’s phone. Shinsuke observes and wonders when they’ll turn their attention to the large windows and the way the clouds descend and veil the autumn foliage like a scene taken out of a dream.

What a pity, Shinsuke finds himself thinking as the freshly-made tofu dissolves in his mouth, that today is their last day on this trip. He looks between Osamu and grandmother who have finally noticed the morning vista and wonders when he’ll be able to experience this again.

Shinsuke is in the midst of stocking Onigiri Miya’s rice reserves when he notices a new frame on the wall. Sleek black that accentuates the colors in the framed magazine spread. Shinsuke takes a step closer.

Heat rises and spreads. He can feel it in his ears because it is the exact same one grandmother has proudly hung up at home. A minor interview in hopes to get the younger generation interested in agriculture again. The one where he stands in a sea of golden, sickled crops. Where the sky is a brilliant blue streaked with white clouds. The mountains are in the distance and Shinsuke is captured as he takes off his cap to wipe away sweat. Shinsuke had allowed them to observe for a day but had no idea when this particular image was captured. In bold lettering, to the right, are the words: **Repetition. Consistency. Care.**

“Ah,” Yamamoto sounds with empty plates in his hands, on the way back to the kitchen, “Osamu-san wanted to let customers know where our rice came from.”

Shinsuke glances at the young man. “Don’t you find it...” he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Tacky? Nah,” Yamamoto shakes his head. “It’s nice. I read the interview you know?”

“Made me visit my grandparents’ tomato farm in Ibaraki.” And then adds: “I have a box of it set aside for you too.”

Shinsuke smiles. The embarrassment recedes and is replaced by warmth.

“This is for you,” Osamu says as he gently places the melon into Shinsuke’s hands. It’s the ones with honeyed and gold centers with netted skin. It comes in a box, slightly smaller than a volleyball, heavy in Shinsuke’s hands. Grandmother’s eyes are probably as wide as Shinsuke’s. She gasps a little at the sight of the bow tied around the vine and the foam net at its base.

“Business has been good thanks to you,” Osamu excuses.

Shinsuke frowns.

Grandmother gushes to Mume-san in the living room, over the phone, about how juicy the melon is as if she hasn’t set aside slices wrapped away in plastic for Mume-san to sample. “As Osamu-chan cut it open, the juice just trickled onto the cutting board! What a waste!”

Shinsuke bites into his slice while he’s still in the kitchen with one hand to catch stray droplets. The sweetness and fragrance of melon bursts onto his tongue. The juice drips into the palm of his hand and slides towards his wrist. Osamu’s fingers wrap around Shinsuke’s hand as he leans in and licks it away with the flat of his tongue.

“Was this what you were aiming for?” Shinsuke finds himself asking, a little cold.

“No,” Osamu straightens and licks his lips. “But it’s a pleasant side effect.”

Osamu tilts his head as if he’s studying Shinsuke. “Do you not like melons?”

“I do,” Shinsuke answers, “but they are a bit too expensive. A bit too formal.” As if their entire relationship was a business transaction.

“I see.”

“I sent one home to my parents, you know?” Osamu continues. “I just wanted to celebrate with people I love.” _Is that so bad?_

Shinsuke raises his bitten slice of melon in apology. Osamu takes a bite. Later, he’ll taste the sweetness of melon directly from Osamu’s lips. But that comes after.

Shinsuke folds up the futon and before he can put it back into the closet, Osamu carries it.

Shinsuke places his hands on his hips. “I can carry twice the amount of rice compared to you.”

“Shinsuke...” it almost comes out a whine, “just let me take care of you.” Shinsuke narrows his eyes at the pout that accompanies that sentence.

Shinsuke sighs and relents: “you already do.” Thinking about how Osamu had helped with the harvest and the milling process. How every time he visits, Shinsuke and this community somehow end up in his care.

( _It’s because you do a lot for me_ , Osamu admits, later that night, when the futons are laid out side by side.

 _Isn’t it natural?_ Shinsuke says in return. Not because they are seeing each other but because this is just Kita Shinsuke.

 _The same goes for me too_. )

“How is this?” grandmother holds up Osamu’s phone with pride. Shinsuke takes a peek and sees a photo of Osamu holding stalks of freshly harvested rice. He’s in the background too, caught in the middle of wiping his sweat.

“What is this for?” Shinsuke asks, curious.

“This is perfect! Thank you, Obaachan!” Osamu says with a swift kiss to grandmother’s cheek. It makes her giggle. The sound unfurls in Shinsuke’s chest.

Osamu takes his phone back, thumbs in a flurry as he types. “For Onigiri Miya’s SNS.”

“So people know where our rice comes from,” Osamu says after he posts.

Grandmother chuckles. “Ah, Osamu-chan, you just wanted to show off didn’t you?”

Osamu puts his finger childishly over his lips and says _shhhhhh_ pleadingly.

Shinsuke turns his head and laughs into his fist.

Today they had just finished packaging the first rice of the year. Osamu had ushered both Shinsuke and his grandmother out of the kitchen, declaring it off limits. He doesn’t exit until he has a tub of steaming rice in his hands. He sets up the central table with plates, the tub of rice, a ladle, and salt. Shinsuke and his grandmother sit across from him. The lump of rice takes shape in his hand. A perfectly neat triangle. Three to each plate. Then sets it before them with a bow.

“Dōzo,” Osamu gestures at the two plates.

Shinsuke picks his up with two hands. It still is a little hot to the touch but it’s also perfect.

“Mmm,” grandmother sounds, face filled with bliss, “Osamu-chan’s onigiri is the best.”

Shinsuke takes another bite. Perfectly salted. He can taste the individual grains with the right amount of give. It’s heartwarming. Vegetables in the garden, grown under watchfulness and daily tending, can taste sweeter. It’s harder to tell with rice. But this — simple salted rice ball — forms a lump in Shinsuke’s throat. He swallows.

The grin on Osamu’s face is as if he was the one who had taken a bite of the most delicious food on Earth.

Shinsuke finishes the onigiri and finds his lips curled in a smile that matches Osamu’s.

The last of the three is a specialty of Osamu’s. One that proudly adorns shelves both at game venues and in store. A product forged from the connection of hearts — all whom reside on two sides of this very table.

Shinsuke can still recall the first time Osamu presented three onigiris, just like this, for Shinsuke to sample. A bead of sweat sliding down the side of Osamu’s face and Shinsuke picked it apart before his very eyes. And how he wished that the ‘ordinary’ food he makes would wind up as a part of someone’s ideal last meal. Shinsuke had countered that it was for the customer to decide. A fervent wish, another’s opinion, shouldn’t make or break you.

Held between two hands is the rice ball original to Onigiri Miya, as if it was something dipped in gold. Grandmother takes a bite. The way Osamu’s fist tightens as it rests on his thigh does not go unnoticed by Shinsuke.

Grandmother’s eyes widen.

“Osamu-chan...” grandmother says upon swallowing. It comes out a little quiet. “Is this...?”

Osamu nods. “The spicy cucumber recipe you taught me, adapted.”

She takes another bite. And another. Until not a single grain of rice can be found on her plate.

“Thank you,” grandmother says, “I ate well.”

“Would you make it for me again?” she asks, voice a little thick. “Again and again up til my last.”

Osamu nods, eyes down cast. If Shinsuke wasn’t seated across from Osamu, he would have placed a hand over Osamu’s trembling one.

“Thank you for having me,” Atsumu announces upon entry, kicking off his shoes and nudging them into alignment with his foot. They remain a little crooked. Shinsuke waits until Atsumu hands over the box of persimmons to his grandmother before he straightens the pair of shoes.

“You look even more handsome in person!” grandmother says with a smile as Atsumu rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “Really are as handsome as Osamu-chan.”

“I’m more handsome than ‘Samu,” he jests. Grandmother chuckles.

Atsumu beams. Grandmother has that affect on people. Shinsuke smiles.

“Sorry for coming over so suddenly,” Atsumu says as he chops the carrot into chunks. He surprisingly knows his way around a kitchen. The pieces of carrot are a little larger than what Shinsuke would like and not as even as Osamu’s but they will do.

“I don’t mind,” Shinsuke says as he peels a potato. The rind elongates and curls upon itself in a single loop. “Like I said when you called.”

“Didn’t know why he wanted to celebrate our birthdays separately this year,” Atsumu grumbles, words punctuated by a particularly loud thud of knife against cutting board. Shinsuke has an inkling but let’s Atsumu continue anyway.

But as if he’s run out of steam Atsumu’s hand stops. The knife rests against the board. “‘Samu’s a handful,” he says meeting Shinsuke’s gaze. He looks a little small. Unlike the Olympian in red on national television and more like the obstinate teen who wanted to practice more volleyball despite the warning signs of a cold.

“Thank you.”

The corner of Shinsuke’s lips flatten a little. “There’s nothing to thank me for.” Ever since Osamu asked if he could spend the 5th of October here, Shinsuke has planned on a small celebration. He looks at the cups meant for steamed eggs that have been brought out after years of collecting dust in the depths of the cupboard. “I’m not doing this because of a favor,” he says. The potato peel falls away. He runs it through water quickly.

“I’m doing this because I want to.”

He knows he’s purposefully misinterpreting Atsumu’s message, focusing on the birthday plans and a sense of gratitude stemming from the steady supply of food that feeds a certain professional athlete. So before Atsumu can pull any more sappy lines meant for Osamu’s ears only, Shinsuke shoves one of grandmother’s umeboshi into his mouth.

“We’ll never finish at this rate,” he says pointing at Atsumu’s side.

The sulk he expects never comes. Atsumu exclaims about how delicious the pickled plum is loud enough for grandmother to chuckle softly and thank him.

Osamu’s face drops later that night after straightening his shoes. The confusion at the extra pair of shoes quickly morphs into betrayal when he sees his brother popping out from behind Shinsuke. If it wasn’t for grandmother’s presence, maybe Osamu would have given Atsumu a taste of his fist like the old days.

If Osamu sneaks an arm around Shinsuke’s waist during dinner, Shinsuke doesn’t call Osamu out on it. Merely amused at the way Osamu darkens when Shinsuke’s grandmother places a good selection of meat on Atsumu’s plate. He doesn’t brush the hand aside. Gives it two gentle pats instead.

At midnight, under the witness of the moon, Shinsuke celebrates his gratitude of the birth of Miya Osamu with a kiss. To the lips, to the inner wrist, to the mole under the wing of his scapula. And holds Osamu at the seams when he comes undone. 

The fields look barren without the stalks of rice. Dry unlike the other nine months of the year. The only welcome break to the endless fields of brown is the occasional blip of red. Every year, when the aka-tombo visit with their gossamer wings and bright red bodies, grandmother sings the same children’s song as she prepares tea. Enjoying an afternoon on the engawa as she overlooks the empty fields and the red dragonflies that dance in the sunset.

 _I wonder when it was that I saw them on someone’s back_.

The bright sun that dips below the horizon washes out the intensity of red. But Shinsuke’s eyes follow them during the afternoon jog, watching them ghost past Osamu’s back.

“What?” Osamu asks once, dark hair touched by gold.

Shinsuke shakes his head. Osamu doesn’t ask again. But when Shinsuke hums the tune named after these creatures adept at aerial somersaults, Osamu joins him.

With the arrival of fall it means more chestnut related foods. Grandmother sneaks some yakikuri into the rice for dinner, the roasted chestnuts adding flavor to the normally plain rice. Osamu brings home kuri yokan and Mont-Blanc aux marrons. Grandmother wears a bright smile as she digs into the classic jellied dessert that contains red beans and chestnuts, informing Osamu of her favorite brand. Then feeds Osamu the French pastry with chestnut cream as an apology for being picky.

Shinsuke is a bit worn out by the chestnut flavor in everything after three weeks. But watching the way grandmother and Osamu huddle over a table, ridding roasted chestnuts of their shells, Shinsuke finds himself joining them. Plucking a newly peeled chestnut from the basket and popping it into his mouth.

Neither of them open their mouths to ask Shinsuke to lend a hand. Shinsuke gets to work.

Shinsuke watches as Osamu’s breath dissolves in air. His arms are crossed as if to make himself smaller, keeping heat close to his body. Shinsuke follows his gaze and notices the pair of swans gliding across his winter pond. The house is even more quiet with grandmother away on the snow viewing hot springs trip with Mume-san.

Shinsuke wraps his arms around Osamu’s waist as if measuring the circumference. It takes Osamu by surprise. He turns around. Shinsuke reaches to brush the snow off Osamu’s hair but it melts before he can.

“Isn’t it cold?” Shinsuke asks, arms still loose around Osamu.

Osamu allows Shinsuke to center him as he drops forward. Arms coming around to hold Shinsuke in return as he buries his face in the crook of Shinsuke’s neck. “Not anymore,” Osamu answers, voice muffled by Shinsuke’s clothes.

And then Osamu raises his head to look into Shinsuke’s eyes. “On second thought...” he says, tone betraying more than his expressions, “warm me up.”

His nose is still a little red from the exposure to the winter cold. Cheeks as well. Shinsuke cups Osamu’s cheeks, noting the temperature difference between his palms and Osamu’s skin. He directs Osamu down and presses his lips against the tip of Osamu’s nose as he takes a step back. And another. And another. Until they are in the warm confines of the house. Osamu slides the doors shut behind him.

Osamu trips over a step, and Shinsuke, fully aware that he could have tried to keep Osamu upright decides to fall with him, fall into him. Shinsuke places his palm on the back of Osamu’s head to cushion the fall.

Osamu looks at him: one part awe, two parts hunger. And how could Shinsuke ever deny him?

The hand at the back of Osamu’s head glides up, fingers tangling with dark locks as he presses their lips together. He wedges a knee between Osamu’s thighs as he licks into Osamu’s lips, feeling Osamu stiffen against his kneecap.

Osamu breaks away first, eyes wide, glancing at the alter. “The gods are watching.”

Shinsuke gives it a glance and turns back to Osamu.

“Let them.”

Winter is admittedly Shinsuke’s least favorite season. It has nothing to do with the cold that bites or the snow that occasionally needs some shoveling. It has every thing to do with the jolt of electricity that passes from a random household object to his hand and the way clothes cling to him like an uncomfortable second skin.

So maybe he wears a frown more often than not when static electricity once again makes itself known.

Osamu brings in a humidifier at some point, citing online articles about how it can help. Shinsuke could kiss him. ( And he does. ) Although the frequency of shock decreases, it doesn’t completely take away how clingy clothes get at times.

Osamu attempts to use dryer sheets. But both Shinsuke and his grandmother are used to having clothes dry outdoors unless absolutely necessary.

Osamu, at a loss, suggests: “you know when we were young ‘Sumu and I would just bump our butts together. Sure there would be a shock but it’s not too bad.” And Shinsuke isn’t sure what to focus on first. The fact that the Miya twins used this method or the fact that his grandmother and Osamu are currently testing it out.

“It works!” grandmother exclaims when she touches metal. Tempting but,

Shinsuke takes a step back when Osamu walks towards him.

“Rintarou would have paid to know your weaknesses back in high school,” Osamu says. The droplets of water cling to his lashes and his hair. Shinsuke runs the towel through his hair furiously to dry it as best as he can. Perhaps a little rough as payback for earlier today. ( Grandmother’s laughter when they bumped butts made it a little less embarrassing. )

“You had conversations about me?” Shinsuke asks. His hands halting a bit. It’s weird. He didn’t think he would come up in conversations. He’s just a high school volleyball captain that probably made no impression until he got that number 1 jersey.

Osamu nods. “All the time.” There’s more to it. Shinsuke doesn’t press.

Osamu tilts his head back. The towel that was still pressed against his hair relaxes a bit. There’s a wisp of his smile on his face as he reaches for Shinsuke’s hand. “Now I don’t want anyone to know.”

It becomes habit of sorts to see Osamu to his car before he heads back to the city, to his main home a floor above his business. Shinsuke is used to this. But every time it’s accompanied with a slight twinge in the chest. Osamu’s pace slows.

Sometimes conversations are used to excuse the lingering. Like now.

“I’m glad Obaachan likes me,” Osamu says. “Reminds me of my own.”

Shinsuke listens.

“I miss them.”

Shinsuke knows that some of them live far and others are no longer with him, much like his own.

“I’m really happy,” Osamu admits and Shinsuke wonders if it is guilt that keeps it from being displayed on Osamu’s face.

Shinsuke gives their connected hands a gentle squeeze.

“I’ll call you later when I arrive,” Osamu says as he lets go to open the car door. Shinsuke nods.

After he gets in and gets settled, Shinsuke motions for Osamu to roll down the window.

“Is there something I—“

Shinsuke leans forward to give Osamu a kiss on the cheek, grinning as he watches the way Osamu’s face turn red.

“Drive safely,” Shinsuke says with a wave and steps back.

He doesn’t go back inside until he can no longer see the car.

Spring arrives. The once barren branches slowly budding. And since Shinsuke no longer has the luxury of visiting Onigiri Miya at will, Osamu visits yet again. He helps out with the tilling of fields, joining Shinsuke when he’s asked to help out elsewhere.

They take breaks under the tree where shade has yet to grow back. But the temperature that rules the early beginnings of spring is so gentle that Osamu doesn’t seem to mind.

The bento Osamu has prepared last night sit in their laps. And despite the perfectly partitioned boxes and one for each of them, Shinsuke finds Osamu’s lips around his pair of chopsticks more often than not. He smiles and steals back a sausage from Osamu’s bento.

The plum tree is in full bloom. The color of its petals are far more intense in its shade of pink compared to cherry blossoms and seemingly more resilient to the wind. The sole tree to the side of Kita household’s back yard is a lonely sight. So Shinsuke and Osamu join it with saké.

Shinsuke takes a sip. It’s perfectly heated.

Osamu’s face glows with pride as he turns to the side and empties his cup.

Shinsuke glances down at his own. The clear liquid in the white cup reflects the pink tinged sky overhead. It brings about a sense of peace. A picture perfect spring afternoon.

Osamu coughs into his hand as he sits up, looking as lethargic as you can expect of a sick person. “Hey,” he croaks, “how’s downstairs?”

Shinsuke pushes him back into bed with a palm against Osamu’s forehead. A little rough but it also helps him assess the temperature.

“It’s fine,” Shinsuke says through the surgical mask. It’s not the first time his employees have been on their own. Shinsuke is helping out as well.

Shinsuke walks to the fridge and pours cold water into a glass before setting it and some antipyretics on the table within Osamu’s reach. Osamu nods his head in thanks before taking the medication.

“Are you hungry?” Shinsuke asks.

Osamu shakes his head as he curls back under the covers. The edge of the blanket rising all the way to his lower chin.

“How about porridge? Or is there anything you would like?” Shinsuke continues as he rummages through Osamu’s kitchen. He might have to go downstairs for ingredients.

“There is...” it comes out a little small. Shinsuke turns around. The tinge of pink that dusts Osamu’s cheeks probably has more to do with fever than anything else. “Umeboshi.”

Shinsuke tilts his head in confusion. “Did we run out yesterday?” And “you should have told me. I would have brought some of Obaachan’s.” But gently of course.

Osamu shakes his head more, lower lip jutting into a pout. “Conbini...”

Why Osamu would want convenient store brand umeboshi beats Shinsuke. But he does as Osamu asks anyway. “Sleep,” he says, fingers brushing Osamu’s hair to the slide, grazing his forehead. “I’ll be back.”

Osamu nods, docile.

Osamu’s face brightens upon Shinsuke’s return. Shinsuke places the bag in Osamu’s lap.

A small box of pickled plums, a vitamin c drink, an energy drink, a bag of cough drops, and two or three of Osamu’s favorite snacks.

Osamu’s hurriedly opens the box and pops a pickled plum into his mouth.

“...”

Shinsuke studies Osamu’s face as he takes two eggs out of the carton.

Osamu drops, defeated. “I’ve been spoiled by Obaachan...”

It causes Shinsuke’s lips to curl into a smile, pleased.

“Right? Obaachan’s really is the best.” Shinsuke says as he washes rice for the okayu.

And because Osamu falls silent Shinsuke looks back, watching the way Osamu toys with the sticker on the plastic lid.

“I stole some of Atsumu’s umeboshi while in high school,” Osamu says, looking up at Shinsuke, “minor compared to how he eats all of my pudding without permission and never returns any of my clothes he borrows.”

Shinsuke drains the rice and rinses it again. This can’t be about that could it? Shinsuke’s brows furrows.

“I’m finally on the receiving end of your kindness.”

Shinsuke walks over to rapt his knuckles against Osamu’s forehead. Osamu winces and rubs the spot with his hands.

“I’ll pretend it’s the fever talking,” Shinsuke says, unamused.

Osamu nods obediently.

“Thank you,” Osamu says as Shinsuke walks back towards the small kitchenette.

“Let’s learn how to make umeboshi from Obaachan when you’re better.”

Osamu smiles and Shinsuke returns to the task at hand.

The entire Miya household kneels respectfully as grandmother explains her process of making umeboshi. Grandmother instructs in a calm and even tone as if she hadn’t spent all of last week preparing so that she had an example for each step. Osamu’s mother adds the crumpled red shiso to the top of the plum vinegar.

“How’s this?” she tilts the tub for grandmother to see.

“Add some more momijiso,” grandmother says and then motions, “press down, you don’t want a gap.”

And then continues to narrate the following process. Grandmother also procures a sheet of paper with all the instructions written down. Her hand writing is even neater than Shinsuke’s.

To finish it off, she beams as she holds out a jar of dried plums stored in red vinegar. Osamu’s dad hurries to the kitchen to grab pairs of chopsticks and grandmother thanks him for it. They sample, all eyes crossed with bliss.

Shinsuke watches his grandmother radiant with joy and feels the same emotion rising in his own chest.

The door to Onigiri Miya slides open. _Welcome_ dies on Shinsuke’s lips when he recognizes the individual that had just walked in. “Ren,” Shinsuke says with a smile, what brings you here?”

“I happened to be in the area and decided to drop by,” Oomimi Ren says as he nods in Osamu’s direction. Osamu acknowledges him with a nod in return. “Been wanting to do so since our celebration.” Ren glances at the menu. “Conbini onigiri fall a bit flat after coming here.” Shinsuke looks in Osamu’s direction, a little proud that a combination of his rice and Osamu’s menus have left such a feeling. “And you?” Ren asks, probably on reflex and out of courtesy.

“We’re business partners.”

Ren looks at Osamu and then at Shinsuke. “And more?”

“Nothing escapes past you does it?” Shinsuke notes.

“Of course not,” Ren replies and then places his order. Shinsuke takes a seat beside him.

The silence that settles seems to make Ren a little uncomfortable.

“How has obaasan been?” he asks.

“Well,” Shinsuke answers, “you should come visit her sometime. She wouldn’t mind.”

Ren nods in a way that makes Shinsuke doubt that it will ever happen. The conversation continues, changing from topic to topic as they try to bridge the past few years.

It feels like a Venn diagram being pulled apart. It’s not bad. Just different.

Here are the ways in which lives can fit together: Osamu’s boots that Shinsuke bought just in case he was serious about learning about farm work are broken in. They are coated with mud and Shinsuke contemplates whether or not they should get a new pair. Shinsuke no longer stores away Osamu’s pair of household slippers, leaving them at the gekkan as if he’s bound to enter at any moment. The toothbrush Osamu used to bring now resides in a cup in the bathroom cabinet. There are enough of Osamu’s clothes here that can fill up a closet. He even has a yukata that grandmother had insisted on getting for him. There’s a mug that has Osamu’s name on it without having Osamu’s name on it. A seat that Shinsuke and his grandmother leave open for meal times. A futon carefully stowed away for its owner’s next visit.

Osamu no longer needs to ask about what are weeds and what aren’t. Shinsuke watches as Osamu uses a hand to carefully coax the tadpoles to swim away through the rippling of water.

He carries out a cooler so that Shinsuke never has to trek back home for a drink. And every time, Osamu fishes for the bottle of water hidden at the very bottom for Shinsuke.

Likewise, the second floor of Onigiri Miya has a pillow Shinsuke has picked out. One side of the closet has his folded uniform and a few items so he doesn’t have to pack a bag every time. And two ridiculously designed aprons that are hardly ever worn, courtesy of one Miya Atsumu, are hung on 3M hooks. The bed is always made now, out of habit. A plant, herb and not succulent, that Shinsuke had gotten gets looked after by Osamu and used to spruce meals.

And these are the things that are synonymous with love.

“Stop taking me on trips,” grandmother complains while hitting her lower back with her fist, “I’m too old for them.” As if she didn’t go to Oita last weekend after seeing some show talk about how delicious seabream chazuke is. “But the two of you should go on one.” She beams. If she were two or three generations younger, she would have been great friends with Fujita.

So this is how Osamu and Shinsuke end up on a five hour long trip to Nagano. There’s not much thought behind this one indicated by how instead of packed lunches they opt for the ones sold on the train. “I hear Nagano is pretty during this time of year,” Osamu says, holding up his phone as if Shinsuke needed evidence to agree with Osamu. As if trust wasn’t enough for him to say “sure.” ( But the fact that it still surprises Osamu, makes mischief curl in Shinsuke. )

Togakushi is as mystic as its name sounds. As the legends have it: the stone door that Amaterasu holed herself up in was flung all the way to this place. Each of the upper, middle, and lower shrines pay respect to a different deity in the tale. Each of them connected by paths and detours that weaves through the slopes Togakushi Shrine rests upon. In between the upper shrine and the middle shrine is a path lined by 300 cryptomeria trees, making both the trek and the forest seem a little sacred. They stop for a short prayer and for some soba and return via the path that leads to Kagamiike. The pond, true to its name, reflects the scenery like a mirror. The mountain landscape that crowns its edges and the clouds of the sky above reflected in still water causes Shinsuke to take out his phone and send a photo to his grandmother.

The bit of soba makes Osamu crave for more and Shinsuke curious about the process, hoping to recreate it at home, so they book a workshop session at the museum. It’s a little cliche. Shinsuke doesn’t mind. Osamu has a little bit of flour on his cheek and he reaches for the towel around his neck out of habit before realizing it isn’t there. Two pairs of eyes observe in mirth as he wipes it away with the back of his arm. The instructor remarks on _what good friends they are_. Shinsuke thanks her after exchanging a look with Osamu. They get a taste of soba dango as they learn about the festival held in November.

Osamu laughs when they leave, deep from within, as he repeats: _good friends_.

 _Aren’t we?_ Shinsuke asks innocently as he curls his pinky around Osamu’s.

Old Karuizawa Ginza Street is bustling with individuals. Not surprising given that they are in the middle of summer and only an hour away from Tokyo. The buildings are a fusion of western style and Japanese, seemingly frozen in the late 80s and struggling to modernize. Banners boasting food flutter in the wind, drawing Osamu to them. They split an oyaki down the middle the way Osamu does with a meat bun even though this is smaller and stuffed with more variations. Osamu, obviously, gets one of each flavor. Shinsuke doesn’t stop him. Rather, Shinsuke sinks his teeth in the crunchy panfried dough and taste all the fillings: from sweet red bean paste to a vegetable stir fry. _In fall or in winter, I heard it goes well with amazake_ , Osamu says with longing. And since Shinsuke isn’t one for empty promises, he says nothing at all.

Halfway down the street, Osamu spots an oden store. He blows on the white radish before passing it to Shinsuke. The day continues like so.

Osamu doesn’t forget about Cafe de Minoriya’s vanilla soft serve that John Lennon helped popularize. And then rush to take it in front of what was formerly the famous Mikasa Hotel.

Shinsuke merely watches in amusement as the ice cream melts and drips onto Osamu’s hand. The way Osamu’s pink tongue darts out to lick it. If only there weren’t so many tourists. If only they were somewhere more private, Shinsuke might have done it for him.

They purchase some shinchimi tougarashi as souvenirs, one for each household because you always need some seven spice blend handy, and two bottles of ramune soda. _Because I was feeling it_ , Shinsuke says.

They settle somewhere the Kumoba pond is within view. Shinsuke listens to the clink of marble against glass every time Osamu tilts his head back to take a swig. His ramune fizzes in his hand. The summer heat causes water to condense and run down the side of the glass, drenching his fingertips as the droplets get pulled by gravity. Shinsuke watches Osamu wipe away stray liquid with the back of his hand and leans forward to do what he couldn’t have done earlier.

The bottle of ramune is set to the side, forgotten.

Atera valley has a gorgeous river of turquoise and emerald that draws sharp contrast against the white stones that line the river bed. Naming it after gems doesn’t seem to do it justice either. So Shinsuke captures an image and sends it to grandmother under the caption of “Atera Blue.”

Despite the almost watercolor look to his photograph, Shinsuke frowns. It would be nice if grandmother could see this for herself.

The tail end of their trip is reserved for a place above the clouds. The gondola rises 1,770 meters above sea level and breaks through the sea of the sky, leaving the earthly realm behind. But still, the scenery witnessed on the ride is nothing compared to the views from the terrace.

With the wind at play, the clouds ripple like waves — far more languid, far more gentle in the way it rolls over one another. The sun is beginning its descent, dyeing the ocean in its orange glow, transforming it into a bed of gold. Shinsuke could stare at the ever changing cloudscape for hours. Judging by the expression on Osamu’s face, he could too. The phone stays in his hand as the camera keeps rolling, capturing seconds upon seconds of minute shifts of _unkai_.

Their elbows touch as they observe from the deck. They leave it there. Basking in the remaining traces of warmth before they are called back to the land below.

The wind rustles through leaves close to the vegetable garden grandmother has set up. At the far end of the garden, where no shade touches, are two figures topped with broad brimmed hats.

Osamu stand next to grandmother, pruner in hand as he clips leaves and nips buds from the vines of cucumbers clinging to the neat row of trellises. Where Shinsuke had opted for wires compared to a wooden lattice back when grandmother had brought up gardening. Had raised beds for shiso to grow so grandmother didn’t have to crouch — arched back, bent knees — and exacerbate the bone aches.

Shinsuke watches as Osamu’s shadow falls perfectly over grandmother, keeping her shaded from the sun as they move in sync down the row of cucumbers.

There’s a warmth in his chest not unlike sipping aki bancha after a meal, where it spreads to his peripheries, satiation unfurling.

Shinsuke decides to save the bancha for later, when perspiration and heat no longer demands for something cold. He brings out the mugicha from the fridge, adds ice to only one of the three glasses, and brings it out to the engawa.

Grandmother spots him first, mirroring Shinsuke’s wave. Osamu looks up, face breaking into a smile as he does the same.

Shinsuke makes himself comfortable on the veranda as Osamu escorts grandmother back towards the house. One hand holding grandmother’s, the other gripping the pruners so that one of grandmother’s hands can remain free.

Shinsuke pours the barley tea into the glasses when they are a few steps away. The ice cubes clink against glass as Shinsuke hands it to Osamu. Beads of condensation remain on Shinsuke’s hand long after the glass has been passed. The once cool drops of water turn warm in the palm of his hand.

There’s a barely discernible line between items meant for Onigiri Miya and those meant for personal use. Not that it matters. Leftovers from the day often become repurposed as midnight snacks, sometimes breakfast. Ingredients close to the expiry date are brought upstairs before they are accidentally used. Condiments that run out in the middle of rush hour are borrowed from a small kitchen, replenished later, saving a desperate run to the nearest store.

The line dissolves when a pack of toilet paper is thrown into the cart.

Shinsuke shifts it so that it is no longer sitting at an angle, wedged between cartons of egg.

Osamu doesn’t notice. Lips reciting the list on his phone, trying to commit it to memory as he navigates the cart through the store.

Shinsuke watches.

There is no hesitation. Osamu has memorized where items are stored as if this was his personal pantry. The occasional doubling back happens when something new catches his eye or the list in hand was organized in a way that worked solely on muscle memory — leaving behind the efficient routes.

Fruits inspected carefully. Dairy checked for expiration dates. Meat selected based on the vibrancy of red. Root vegetables weighed in hand before they are placed into the cart. The type of onion debated on factors related to price, recipe in mind, overall dryness and storage concerns. Tea no longer bought in bulk from such places, ordered from Shinsuke’s sources with at least one seasonal one in rotation. The perilla leaves are brought close to his nose for a whiff to determine freshness.

Shinsuke wonders if this habit is new or old.

A ten pack favorite snack of Osamu’s slipped into the cart, causing Shinsuke’s lips to curl. A box of tofu, a slab of steak, tucked closer towards the handle of the cart unwilling to be mixed in with the rest.

Shinsuke knows even before Osamu vocalizes it: “How about tofu hamburgers for tonight?”

This year Shinsuke spends Tanabata at Osamu’s. He’s been at the Miya household for a couple of times but today is the first seeing both twins in their childhood home.

“What did you wish for?” Atsumu asks, trying to take a peek at Shinsuke’s tanzaku. Shinsuke has nothing to hide so he lets Atsumu.

“It’s blank?” confusion clear in his tone. “Don’t you have anything you want? Like good health or a better boyf—”

Shinsuke watches Atsumu wince and curl protectively against his shin.

“What was that for?!”

Osamu shrugs. “Mom wanted your help with the soumen.”

Atsumu clucks his tongue. “It’s just noodles submerged in cold water. What is there that needs my help?”

“She just wants an excuse to spend some time with you, dumbass.”

Atsumu’s other shin gets abused this time. Atsumu scowls and walks back towards the kitchen.

The Miya household does not have an engawa the way Shinsuke is used to. He sits where the glass doors are meant to slide shut and overlook the backyard. Osamu joins him, quiet now that his brother is gone.

Shinsuke lifts his head and looks at the sky.

Every time the seventh day of the seventh month arrived, grandmother would tell him the same tale and finish it off with an old song. They would write on the tanzaku — one of each color for each of them to make up for the numbers Kita household lacks — and hang it on bamboo. The next morning, grandmother would gather all of them and set them afloat in a river. Her hand curled protectively around Shinsuke’s smaller ones and Shinsuke wondered what his grandmother was thinking of. _It looks like the paper lanterns on boats like Obon_ , he had said when he was much, much younger and the distant look in grandmother’s eyes instilled trepidation within him. Grandmother ruffled his hair saying _ah my Shin-chan is so smart. It’s because their dates used to be so close together when we used two calendars that people got confused_. 

So maybe Shinsuke’s mind lingers on Tōrō Nagashi as he observes the sky above. His finger presses against the edge of the tanzaku until it bends a bit under the pressure. Shinsuke releases it and allows his head to fall on Osamu’s shoulder.

The street lights have created a thin film in the sky, blocking out all stars except for the brightest ones. He can’t see the Milky Way unlike when they were in the dense heart of Miyoshi.

He still doesn’t know what to wish for. He’s content with the way things are: what more could he want?

After the chairs are put up and Onigiri Miya is left without a single soul residing in its walls, the lights are off and the world outside is relatively quiet, Osamu and Shinsuke take the flight of stairs up to their second home. Usually meals are had downstairs. Ingredients are readily available and tables are constantly disinfected. But some nights, hours after dinner, midnight cravings arrive. Shinsuke sits at the small dining table that only has enough space for two. Osamu divides the leftover rice from downstairs into two bowls. He carries them, one in each hand, to the table where a pot of tea has already been brewed. A soft boiled egg sits on top of the rice under a sprinkle of nori, sesame seeds, and bubu arare. Shinsuke pours the tea into both bowls and pushes the plate containing mitsuba towards Osamu, after he has added some to his bowl. In return, Osamu slides wasabi in Shinsuke’s direction and Shinsuke nods his head in thanks.

Shinsuke stabs the egg and watches the yolk leak into soup, congealing. Silence gets interrupted by slurps.

Osamu finishes first. His bowl emptied spare for the rim at the very bottom. His pair of chopsticks neatly placed on the right edge of the bowl. Normally, he would get up. Put the bowl in the sink, rinse, and maybe wash it immediately. Tonight he stays put.

Shinsuke raises the bowl to his lips, tilting it to break eye contact. He sets it down when it is empty. Osamu’s eyes are still on him.

“What do you do to relax?” Osamu questions. And maybe because Shinsuke looks at him too quizzically that Osamu adds: “I never see you do anything for yourself.”

“What about you?” Shinsuke counters.

“The trips to your farm. Having an excuse to buy confectionaries I want to try. Taking a weekend off to relax and know that by the time I return, Onigiri Miya hasn’t collapsed on itself,” Osamu lists, “because I have good employees now and don’t have to do everything myself.”

If that’s what Osamu means then the answer is an easy one.

“Meals with you,” Shinsuke says.

“What?”

“Sharing a meal with you. Like this.” He places his pair of chopsticks on the rim of his bowl horizontally.

Osamu smiles. The warm kind that pulls the same curvature of lips out of Shinsuke.

“I think I figured it out,” Osamu says, after a beat, “what I would want for my ideal last meal.”

“What?” Shinsuke entertains.

“Doesn’t matter,” Osamu says simply. _Doesn’t matter_ , says the Miya Osamu who loves food more than anyone else Shinsuke knows. “As long as its shared with you.”

Shinsuke isn’t sure what expression he is wearing on his face. Osamu reaches out and brushes the back of his fingers against Shinsuke’s cheek.

“Or maybe tofu hamburgers,” he adds after a pause.

Shinsuke puts his hand around Osamu’s, thinks about his favorite food becoming a favorite of Osamu’s, and presses his lips against the heart of Osamu’s palm.

It’s one of those listless days. Where the clouds hang down and low, foreshadowing rain.

Shinsuke untangles himself from Osamu, sitting up as he surveys the weather. There are a million things to get out of bed for.

The crops need to be inspected before the sky pours. Tanaka-san is still recovering from his knee surgery. Sato-san is on vacation, visiting her children in Osaka, and asked Shinsuke to look after her field. No doubt Obaachan is already up, preparing breakfast even when her joints ache on these sorts of days.

But Osamu’s arms are wound around Shinsuke’s waist as if he’s holding something precious. Still in between dreams as he mumbles “stay.”

Shinsuke cards his fingers through soft black hair.

“Five more minutes,” he finds himself saying.

Grandmother has a habit of placing a bowl of senbei on the table when she watches a show. Though usually her hands are too occupied by needles and a project. But for her favorite ones, the historical types with lots of drama or the ones that span for episodes and episodes, she sets them down and pays devoted attention to the TV set. Broken only by hands that reach for the rice crackers in the bowl and finding nothing.

Now there are two of them. And a bigger bowl. With more variety of senbei in it. Osamu discusses with grandmother the plot the way Mume-san would. Shinsuke smiles to himself as he heads to the tub to scrub it clean.

“There’s a temple in Kyoto and one in Saitama,” grandmother begins after she has tucked her legs under her and sat across from Shinsuke, “that offers wedding services to same sex couples.”

Shinsuke is glad that his hands are folded and beneath the table. He tightens them a bit, thinking about how grandmother probably had practiced saying those borrowed English words so that she could inform Shinsuke. An emotion curls in his stomach and then shoots for his throat, threatening to push the tears out of him.

“And there are six places in our prefecture that offer partnership certificates,” she continues, her tone even. Shinsuke can’t read her like this. He thinks of how way back in the final year of high school grandmother had mentioned how she was looking forward to his wedding. He can’t help but wonder if this is her way of seeking compromise. The guilt for never properly re-introducing Miya Osamu weighs on him.

But the last thing Shinsuke wants to do is disappoint her. So he smiles and says: “I’ll talk to Osamu.”

Conversations should be had before or after a meal. Definitely across a table so hands can be properly folded. But the words are too daunting for Shinsuke at the moment, his brain failing to string together the things he wants to say. So it only gets coaxed out of him with a brush of a hand against the slope of his shoulder, a quiet _what’s wrong_ ghosting against the nape of his neck as his legs are tangled with Osamu’s on the second floor of Onigiri Miya.

“Grandmother mentioned the other day how people like us could get married in Kyoto.”

A brush of fingers against his hair, a soft: “face me.”

He’s reluctant at first, concerned over the expression that could be on Osamu’s face, before he gives in.

It’s a lot less intimidating when Osamu holds his gaze.

Osamu opens his hand that lies between them — an invitation for Shinsuke to lace his hands with Osamu’s. He does.

“I only ever wanted to make her happy,” Shinsuke starts. There’s no other way to repay all that love than happiness. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s just humoring me.”

Osamu says nothing. Patiently waiting for Shinsuke to continue. A thumb with broad strokes against the back of his hand.

How do you tell someone your fears without burdening them? How do you tell the man you love you’re afraid that the other most important person in your life may dislike you for loving him? How do you put the anxiety of disappointment into words in a way he would understand? You don’t need him to take it out of you. You just need him to listen.

Osamu does. In the quiet of his own bed. In the darkness of his own room.

The light that seeps through the window is more artificial and less moon. The last thing Shinsuke wants to do is break the hearts of those who love him.

“All I ever wanted was a normal sort of happiness,” Shinsuke confesses.

“What does normal mean?” Osamu prompts.

Shinsuke thinks about how Sato-san keeps trying to get either Shinsuke or Osamu to meet her cousin’s daughter. _Just thank me if it ends in marriage_. That time when Mume-san showed off her granddaughter’s ultrasound and Obaachan had congratulated her after staring at it for too long. The times when he attends a gathering of relatives — especially weddings — and get bombarded with questions of when will his be? Is he seeing anyone yet? If not a friend of a friend’s brother’s cousin’s daughter is eligible. And, oh, he just hasn’t found the right person yet. The right person will have you focus less on your career and more on family.

And the one thing most deeply engraved in the back of Shinsuke’s eyes is the way Obaachan gets excited upon arriving at the wedding hall.

“Isn’t it what everyone else wants?” Shinsuke says, “to get married, have children, have a family.”

“But what does Kita Shinsuke want?”

 _For simple days like this to continue_.

A laugh makes it’s way out of Shinsuke’s chest, deep, seizing his body. If the answer was always there, why did he overcomplicate things? He thinks about Aran’s _if it makes ya happy...Then it makes ya happy and that's fine!_

Osamu’s eyes never leave him. There’s a sort of steadiness to them so that when the laughter settles it feels a little like wading through a sea of golden crops and coming home.

“Then isn’t that Kita Shinsuke’s normal?” Osamu follows up without Shinsuke explaining himself. Shinsuke recognizes trust when he sees it. Osamu understands that Shinsuke will speak when he’s ready.

Shinsuke’s lips curl into a smile.

“What about you? What did you want in life?” he counters.

“I never thought that far,” Osamu admits with a small shrug. It sounds like something Atsumu would also say. “All I knew after high school was that I wanted to do something in the food industry.”

“All I knew after you asked me out was that I would keep loving you as long as you allowed me to.”

And even in moments like this Osamu manages to render Shinsuke speechless. For a brief second, Shinsuke wonders what he’s done to deserve him. But such thoughts would be rude to Osamu so he puts an end to them.

Just as he’s about to thank Osamu, Osamu says: “If you are afraid maybe we should talk it out.”

“All three of us. Together,” Osamu finishes with a small squeeze to Shinsuke’s hand.

Shinsuke nods and returns it.

A pause filled with silence. Connected hands exude a sense of warmth. It’s comfortable. He could be lulled to sleep with the weight that has dissipated from his shoulders. He watches the way Osamu is close to drifting off and finds himself saying: “thank you for falling in love with me.”

The smile that makes its way to Osamu’s lip is a lazy one. “Thank you for allowing me to fall in love with you.”

And the smile that hasn’t faltered grows wider. Shinsuke’s biggest mistake was brushing Osamu off as a carbon copy of his brother — just more reserved, he recalls himself saying. The twins have their similarities but also their differences. Over the years, Shinsuke has become more acquainted with the latter. It wasn’t so much _allowing_ but rather trusting Osamu wouldn’t breech boundaries. Osamu has always been able to recognize the value and assess the pros and cons of a situation. Whether or not he does anything about it is another thing. But when he makes up his mind, he finds a way to pursue it. Shinsuke thinks about Onigiri Miya, thinks about this moment. At the end of the day, loving Osamu is easy. Shinsuke chooses to do so every morning, regardless of whether or not Osamu is there beside him when he wakes up.

There’s a bigger question that lurks underneath all this. The one that brought him here. The one that began all of this in the first place.

“If I asked for your hand would you say yes?”

There’s a sense of humming in his veins and a quickening pulse. Shinsuke realizes with a start that this is nervousness. Maybe his old volleyball club would be amused. Aran would certainly be. Their unflappable captain not immune to nerves. But this isn’t the sort of thing you can replicate in practice. So he keeps his eye on Osamu for any tells.

“It’s been yours for a long time now.” Open, honest, true. _You just need to claim it_.

Shinsuke doesn’t. Not now.

Not until after they’ve had a conversation with grandmother too.

Shinsuke tightens his hold on Osamu’s hand in a promise.

Shinsuke and Osamu sit on one side of the table, grandmother on the other. With this arrangement, it really does feel like a marriage talk. His hand is in Osamu’s for strength and safe keeping. He still doesn’t know where to start.

Osamu squeezes his hand.

Shinsuke exhales and begins with “Obaachan.”

Grandmother looks at him. The smile on her face is as pleasant as always. There are many things Shinsuke can ask. _Since when has she known?_ _Does she not mind?_ _Can she really accept them as they are or is she forcing herself?_

Instead he says: “what brought up the temples and marriage?”

“Hmm,” she hums under her breath. “Because it seemed like you were never going to tell me about Osamu-chan.”

Shinsuke’s heart sinks a little. There’s a warm thumb brushing against the back of his hand that steadies him. Shinsuke draws in a breath and pushes forward.

“Are you not disappointed?”

“The gods are always watching,” she says as cryptic as she was when Shinsuke was young. It reminds him of wooden floors and wet rags and a stick of incense about to run on empty. “Your _en_ with Osamu-chan is part of their plan.”

If it was as simple as that then religions would have accepted them already. But Shinsuke doesn’t care about their opinions. He cares about his grandmother’s.

“Beyond gods, what about you Obaachan,” Shinsuke presses, “Do you not want great grandchildren?”

Other nations allow couples like them to adopt or have their own. Not here, not yet.

“All I want is for you to be happy,” grandmother says, “thought that if you had a family of your own that would be happiness.” The features of grandmother’s face are soft and gentle as she says the next part: “but that’s not necessarily true.”

“I did research,” she smiles a little sheepishly, “Mume-chan helped too! But even if our definitions of happiness are different, as long as you are happy... isn’t that what matters most?”

She looks at Osamu. “When we went to Kyoto and you slipped off your glove because I couldn’t get a good grip on your hand...” Her voice trembles a little. “I was so grateful that my Shin-chan has someone so thoughtful beside him. That even if I pass into the next life tomorrow I would have no regrets knowing that Osamu-chan will be there for my Shinsuke.”

Shinsuke trembles. His eyes blur. The back of his hand not enveloped in warmth is splashed by tears.

“It doesn’t matter who you love, you’ll always be my Shin-chan.” Shinsuke looks up. And even though grandmother is just an outline across from him, he hopes he’s meeting her eyes.

“I’m just glad it was Osamu-chan.”

The hand around his squeezes tight. Shinsuke can feel the way it trembles and he doesn’t have to see to know that Osamu probably looks as bad as he does.

Shinsuke tugs his hand free and rises to his feet, swiftly crossing the tatami floor to grandmother’s side. He’s barely able to restrain himself from tackling into her side like he’s five again. She opens her arms and allows Shinsuke to bury himself in the warmth of her arms.

Her shirt dampens but grandmother doesn’t seem to mind. One of her arms leaves to beckon Osamu. Soon after another presence joins their heap of buried heads and crying faces.

There are some rituals you make for yourself. Like this moment where Shinsuke is safe in grandmother’s arms but so is the man he’s in love with. It’s kind of silly but also perfect.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Miya Osamu,” _like this_. “Will you marry me?”

And Osamu, with endearingly swollen eyes, smiles so bright it makes Shinsuke want to kiss him, says: “yes.”

But Shinsuke is too comfortable in this position so he opts for Osamu’s hand instead. Guiding it towards him until he can brush his lips against the back of Osamu’s fingers.

Grandmother’s face was probably the reddest out of all of theirs. A laugh bubbles out of Shinsuke.

Shinsuke comes home to find Osamu napping under the kotatsu. He’s probably fallen asleep by accident, lulled by the warmth of it. His hands are crossed on the table, head resting on his arms, a laptop pushed more towards the center of the table. He probably should shake Osamu awake to avoid the crick in his neck. But he’s sleeping so soundly Shinsuke can’t bring himself to wake Osamu.

Shinsuke goes grab a blanket and before he can throw it over Osamu, grandmother gets there first. She looks at the screen that has been pulled up and chuckles. She strokes Osamu’s hair and Shinsuke feels soft on the inside.

After grandmother walks away, Shinsuke reaches over to put the laptop to sleep. The web page pulled up catches his eye. It’s on good natured large dogs for seniors.

 _So what if I can’t have great grandchildren_ , grandmother had laughed after their messy proposal, in the middle of dinner, _dogs are just as good!_

Shinsuke finds himself smiling at the tabs and how Grandmother hums happily under her breath. Shinsuke leans forward to press a kiss to Osamu’s temple.

Despite all of Osamu’s research, they drive to the nearest shelter. Take a few on walks. Grandmother ends up falling in love with a mixed Kishu Ken and bring him home.

Shinsuke rattles off a date. “Are you free that day?”

“I’ll have to check but why?” Aran asks, curious.

“There’s a temple in Kyoto,” Shinsuke begins, “Osamu and I are getting married there.”

“Oh!” Aran sounds surprised. Shinsuke chuckles.

“I wanted to tell you before you get the invitations in the mail,” Shinsuke says, holding the phone a little closer. “I wanted to do it in person but I figured you might be too busy for that.”

“Never!” Aran gasps. “But first. Congratulations are in order.”

Shinsuke chuckles at the sounds of clapping through the receiver.

“I’m so happy for you.”

Shinsuke slides a simple white envelope across the low tea table in Ren’s direction. The café they had decided to meet at is a little on the busy side. Ren raises his eyebrows as he takes the envelope and unseals it.

It reads _you’ve been cordially invited to_ , _Kita Shinsuke & Miya Osamu_, and the date.

“I wanted to give it to you in person,” Shinsuke says.

“Marriage huh,” Ren exhales as he tucks the paper away. “Congratulations, Shinsuke.”

Grandmother shifts the haori himo so it hangs perfectly in the center before she straightens the montsuki haori, fingers brushing against the white threads that form the Kita crest against the black jacket. Her face is lined with pride as she reaches to cup Shinsuke’s face. Shinsuke leans forward. Foreheads come in contact. Moments shared in silence are sometimes more meaningful than the ones filled with words.

The three maroon sakazuiki are stacked in a tier. No one remembers what they symbolize anymore. Some say it is heaven, earth, and mankind. Others believe it to be love, wisdom, and happiness. There’s one that cites it as the human flaws of hatred, passion, and ignorance. Shinsuke raises the nuptial cup to his lips with both hands and drinks. Then from the larger one. And lastly from the largest of the three.

In this variation the cups are exchanged, passed to Obaachan and then to Osamu’s parents, sealing the bond between two families.

The vows are prepared by the shrine, not given to each other but to god, in witness by the small group of attendees. 

And ends not with a kiss or an exchange of rings but with a bow to the ones who watch over Shinsuke and Osamu.

“To think we gain such an excellent son,” Osamu’s mother says, teary, after their family photo is taken, “I couldn’t be happier.” Osamu’s father clasps Shinsuke’s shoulder in agreement.

Shinsuke bows deeply in thanks, at a loss for words.

When he straightens he notices how grandmother beams, introducing Osamu as her grandson-in-law.

The reception is far more boisterous. And ends earlier than planned when Atsumu wedges himself between Shinsuke and Osamu and announces: “There’s a sports center not far from here. Let’s go play some volleyball!”

Aran gently wrestles Atsumu away, whispering loudly: “what if they have plans?”

“Huh?!” Atsumu snaps, “it’s not like they have honeymoon plans and even if they did I would destroy them.” As if Atsumu wasn’t the one researching places and linking Osamu with _Top 10 Honeymoon Destinations_ only to be disappointed when Osamu conveyed how they didn’t see the need nor want to embark on one.

Osamu looks at Shinsuke apologetically. Grandmother places a hand over Shinsuke’s and says: “I placed some clothes for you in the trunk.”

Shinsuke smiles as he kisses her on the cheek. Then stands, looks at Osamu, and says: “Let’s go play some volleyball.”

As if grandmother preparing a change of clothes and putting them into his old Inarizaki High gym bag wasn’t enough of a clue, the fact that the volleyball court of the nearby sports center remains empty gives Atsumu away. He shrugs under Osamu’s gaze, avoiding eye contact. Shinsuke chuckles at the brotherly akwardness.

“If you had this planned then warn us,” Akagi Michinari says as he loosens his tie. Kosaku Yuto nods in agreement to Michinari’s next sentence: “It’s almost impossible to play in suits.”

“That’s just an excuse,” Atsumu retorts as he walks onto the court, spinning a volleyball in his hands.

“We are clearly at a disadvantage here,” Ren points out, “there are four pro league players.”

“Rotate teams then?” Ginjima Hitoshi says with a shrug, rolling his sleeves above his elbow.

Shinsuke watches them all with a bit of pride and joins the fray with a clap of his hands. Atsumu grins as they fall into two sides of the net.

“You fucking suck!” Atsumu yells when he and Osamu fail to sync properly, spike easily killed by Rintarou.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry,” Osamu’s voice drips with sarcasm as he wipes the sweat from his face with the front of his shirt, “sorry that I forget you have shit for brains and can’t remember how some of us aren’t Olympians.”

So who really is at fault when Atsumu botches his next serve and the ball drives into the back of Osamu’s head?

Atsumu raises his hand in an apology when Osamu sends him a death glare. “I guess Olympians are prone to mistakes.”

“Explains why you’re the back-up setter,” Osamu says, rubbing the back of his head.

“Hey!” Atsumu yells.

There is no referee to stop them. Just Aran who holds Atsumu back from beating the newlywed into pulp.

Yuto watches in concern and turns to Shinsuke for assistance. Shinsuke remains unfazed. They were not who they once were. This is just them working the kinks of how they relate to one another, having not realized that marriage is just a formality. Albeit a nice one, depending on your point of view.

It’s Atsumu’s turn to serve again. The twins have rotated to different sides of the net. Shinsuke watches the hybrid serve that he’s only seen televised, remembers how EJP Raijin’s libero got it up after three times — perfectly returned to their setter before it was slammed past the middle blocker by their very own Suna Rintarou. Shinsuke moves on instinct. Rusty from the lack of daily practice. Just a ghost of what once was instructing him how to get under it.

Shinsuke receives it. Far from perfect. It goes up at least. A little short for a good set. But before he can apologize, Osamu gets under the ball and sets it with an overhead pass. One high enough that calls out to Shinsuke.

It doesn’t matter if it becomes a point or not. What matters is the sting in the palm of his hand and the expectation that Shinsuke will meet him where he’s at.

Old teammates come to clap him on the back. He’s still a little dazed. Palm still stinging from impact.

Everyone collapses after three sets. Rintarou is the only one standing, handing a bottle of cold water to Shinsuke as he takes up space beside him. “Thanks,” Shinsuke says with a nod as he takes the water from Rintarou. He unscrews the cap and takes a few sips.

Rintarou watches and then speaks up after a moment. “You’re scary Kita-san.”

“Yeah,” Heisuke Riseki chimes in, “you’re a monster too.”

It draws out a laugh from Shinsuke. He throws his head back and leans against the wall, staring at the arched ceilings above. “I’m just a mortal,” he says with a shake of his head, “just a rice farmer.”

“Just married,” Rintarou points out and another laugh slips out from Shinsuke.

“Yeah,” he agrees, gaze drawn back to the familiar figure of his now... _husband_. How silly it is for lips to curl into a smile over a single word and yet. “Just married.” Maybe this moment, too, errs on the result side of things. The unbridled sense of happiness settled in his chest tells him that it doesn’t matter either way.

“Thanks for organizing this,” Shinsuke says to Atsumu who is in the midst of cleaning up.

“I did it so I could beat ‘Samu on his wedding day,” Atsumu replies, not meeting Shinsuke’s gaze. As if he didn’t witness Atsumu toss Osamu a cold pack and a bottle of water as an apology. Their identities as Miya Atsumu and Miya Osamu rediscovered.

“Thanks...” Atsumu says, his normal levels of confidence abandoning him, “for making him happy.”

For a moment, Shinsuke wonders if Atsumu is going to declare that he’ll be the happier twin, the way he did in an argument Shinsuke arrived too late to witness. Or if that is something reserved only for Osamu’s ears. Or perhaps, Atsumu’s grown out of it. Happiness is personal, its relative. Such things do not belong on a scale.

“He does the same for me,” Shinsuke answers.

Atsumu smiles.

Aran claps Shinsuke on the back before he leaves. Ren catches up with Obaachan. Shinsuke parts with the rest of the club, one by one, thanking them for attending. In return, they congratulate him and Osamu.

They are still in their gym clothes after everyone leaves. Their formal clothes are folded properly in the trunk of Osamu’s car. And since it’s just the two of them left Shinsuke asks: “can I kiss you?”

“I’m sweaty and gross,” comes the reply. The curl of delight settles low in Shinsuke’s abdomen upon seeing the tinge of pink that betrays Osamu. 

“I know.”

The color deepens. Osamu bends a little. Shinsuke kisses him in the name of love, life, and happiness.

Shinsuke watches as Marron, named after his chestnut colored fur on his back but in French, happily wags his tail as he trails after grandmother. So good natured and intelligent that they have long gotten rid of the need for a leash. And he’s probably the only individual more popular than Osamu in this neighborhood. Marron bounds ahead then circles back to hurry grandmother and Mume-san who decided to take him on an afternoon stroll.

They disappear into the horizon, Shinsuke should begin making dinner but he’s too comfortable where he’s seated. Both hands are occupied by three felines’ heads, purring as they rub the other one away. The three of them ended up at Kita Farm by accident. Osamu had found them and brought them home.

“We should keep them,” Osamu had said, already in the midst of naming them: “Atsumu, Ren, and Riseki.” Pointing to each one of them. The first one is a Burmese kitten with a light apricot tinge to its fur that happens to make it look like a bad dye job. The second has more of a brownish coat but eyes that look a little fed up with the world. The third one hides behind the other two, timid in nature.

Shinsuke replies with a flat: “no.” Despite the corner of his lips twitching at the accuracy.

“Awww,” his grandmother sounds, reaching out her hand for the second kitten to assess, “this one does remind me of Ren-kun.”

“Yes,” Shinsuke amends.

Osamu pouts and somehow their household expands to include three cats. The chicken coop remains relatively unharassed and Marron looks after them like his own.

Akemi with the apricot fur bumps her head into Shinsuke’s hand. Maybe he melts a little as he lavishes attention upon the three of them. Yuka, ever gentle, merely places a paw on Shinsuke’s shin. But he only has two hands so he turns around to call for Osamu.

Shinsuke stops when he notices what Osamu is doing.

Osamu is kneeling in front of the butsudan: eyes closed, head bowed, hands pressed together, and lips muttering a prayer. The falling sun causes the golden band around his finger to glint. Shinsuke finds himself smiling at the sight.

Osamu’s main residence is still above Onigiri Miya but he tries to come home during the weekends when he can. Shinsuke doesn’t hold it against him. Doesn’t understand why Osamu needs to apologize every time he can’t. Marriage shouldn’t change someone fundamentally. It isn’t magic. Just a promise to keep.

“ _Okaeri_ ,” he hears grandmother say. And maybe the rice Shinsuke was washing gets forgotten as he hastily dries his hand and steps out of the kitchen.

A promise. A part of the family. An identical ring on his finger.

Osamu reaches for Shinsuke’s hand. Puzzled, Shinsuke lets him. Osamu raises it to his lips to kiss where the band of gold sits on Shinsuke’s fourth finger.

“What movie did you watch?” Shinsuke asks, mirth filling his tone.

“Can’t you just take it as a romantic gesture?” Osamu quips.

Shinsuke shakes his head. “I don’t need grand gestures.”

He slips his hand into Osamu’s as he holds Osamu’s gaze.

“Welcome home, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from emily dickenson's [Forever – is composed of Nows –](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52202/forever-is-composed-of-nows-690)
> 
> i also like to think that kita yumie came across [juerias lgbt wedding](https://twitter.com/juerias/).
> 
> i'm terrible at replying to comments because i would rather sit and hoard them like a dragon. but for everyone who read the prequel and left a little something, it's thanks to you that this sequel could have been formed. it became the strength that comforted me on bad days so thank you if you've managed to make it all the way here again. i love you.
> 
> i would be nothing without my beta [xin](https://twitter.com/RainElsewhere) ❤  
> and i would never have made it this far without [rhom](https://twitter.com/caaarot_)  
> with special thanks to the contributions by [mina](https://twitter.com/indomitablemina) & [shelly](https://twitter.com/msbyshoyou).
> 
> references:
> 
>   * [someone is always watching](https://twitter.com/lqiwaoi/status/1279449459609329664) kita analysis thread
>   * [kita shinsuke doesn't believe in gods](https://twitter.com/kitakitsunes/status/1248862628706791424) analysis thread
>   * [onigiri with okoge](https://kyotofoodie.com/chef-tanigawa-new-rice-onigiri/)
>   * [rice paddy](https://kome-academy.com/en/kome_library/make.html) [basics](https://visitkinosaki.com/things-to-do/stork-natural-rice/) \+ [rice farming history](http://factsanddetails.com/japan/cat24/sub159/item939.html)
>   * [tsukemono](https://www.seriouseats.com/2014/06/guide-japanese-pickles-tsukemono.html) & [spring wagashi](https://wow-j.com/en/Allguides/osaka/food/00945_en/)
>   * [cafe absinthe](http://www.absinthe-jp.com/cafe-absinthe)
> & [bar yoshida](https://bar-yoshida.com/index.html)
>   * [himeji yukata festival](https://www.japan.travel/en/spot/2354/)
>   * [hatsumode](https://livejapan.com/en/article-a0000776/)mochitsuki
>   * [autumn onsen collection](https://savvytokyo.com/10-superb-onsen-resorts-visit-autumn/) \+ [iyaonsen](https://www.iyaonsen.co.jp/en/) \+ [kiyomitsu-dera](https://nerdnomads.com/kiyomizudera-temple-kyoto)
>   * [akatombo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGfxhvU9YfE)
>   * [kuri](https://traditionalkyoto.com/eat/chestnuts/)
>   * [umeboshi method](https://thejapanstore.jp/blogs/column/way-of-making-pickled-plum)
>   * nagano trip: [1](https://travel.gaijinpot.com/5-famous-foods-youll-find-in-nagano/) & [2](https://nagano-trip.com/summer/) & [togakushi shrine](https://www.japan-guide.com/e/e6005.html) & [togakushi soba](https://www.alpico.co.jp/en/travelog/post/enjoying-soba-and-soba-flavored-desserts-at-togakushis-soba-festival/) & [ryuoo sora terrace](https://zekkeijapan.com/spot/index/499/)
>   * on [縁 ( en )](http://meadowlake001.blogspot.com/2015/08/blog-post.html)
>   * the midnight snack is ochazuke. normally restaurants serve it with dashi but kita wouldn't like that. [inspired](https://twitter.com/haikyu_com/status/1290570651233730560) [by](https://twitter.com/pala_bora/status/1290577681176604672).
>   * [dog breeds](https://thesmartcanine.com/japanese-dog-breeds/#:~:text=Ryukyu%20Inu%20Temperament,great%20hunters%20for%20wild%20boars.)
>   * [kyoto](https://www.outofoffice.com/japan/gay-wedding-in-japan/)'s [shunkoin](https://shunkoin.com/weddings/) & [saitama](https://www.tokyoweekender.com/2020/04/buddhist-temple-rural-saitama-same-sex-weddings/)'s saimyouji temple + [ceremony](https://www.japanvisitor.com/japanese-culture/weddings)
> 

> 
> come yell at me [here.](https://twitter.com/shokurensei)


End file.
